


Invisible Thorns

by caritivereflection



Category: The Maze Runner Series - James Dashner
Genre: F/M, I swear the romance happens eventually, M/M, liberal application of tropes, not technically AU, spoilers through TDC
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-12-15
Updated: 2017-07-05
Packaged: 2018-03-01 14:15:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 22
Words: 72,463
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2776043
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/caritivereflection/pseuds/caritivereflection
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Paradise lasted hours. Thomas thought the worst was over, but he soon learns that WICKED's claws have a deeper hold than any of them could have imagined.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Seventeen Campfires

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "If you shut up truth, and bury it underground, it will but grow." - Emile Zola

Thomas jerked awake as a hand touched his shoulder. He turned and squinted into the darkness, making out the outline and the glinting eyes of Minho by the dying embers of the fire. 

“Wha--” he started, but Minho shushed him, and an uncharacteristic seriousness settled over his features.

“We need to talk,” he whispered. His eyes glanced around at the sleeping bodies. “But not here.”

Without waiting for another word, or even looking back to see if Thomas followed, Minho rose and walked away from the fire, one of the many spotting the grassy valley near the coast where the group had made camp. 

The first day in Paradise had passed in a blur of activity, a throng of humans loosely organized in an attempt to survive. They came with nothing, no food or water or supplies, and so the first day was little more than a mad dash for dinner.

The result was a flavorless and too small serving of fish and berries. Thomas went to bed hungry that night, him and the other two hundred immunes. Minho’s promise of a better tomorrow did little to sate their growling insides.

Thomas sighed. For a moment, he considered ignoring Minho and falling back asleep. He shook his head and rubbed his eyes, sitting up and casting a look toward Brenda. She was at his side, curled into a loose ball and facing away from him. They were close, but not touching, and Thomas held back the urge to run a hand through her hair, which laid on the grass around her head like a shadow.

He got to his feet and went after Minho. His friend’s outline was barely visible as he marched toward the forest, his pace not even slowing as he stepped over and around the slumbering bodies that littered the ground. 

Thomas was careful as he walked, uninterested in disturbing someone’s sleep as much as he was in making sure this meeting, or whatever it was, stayed secret. If it was enough for Minho to take him away from the group in the dead of night, then secrecy was probably important. 

He followed the Keeper into the darkness, the fires at his back and the stars in the sky doing little to illuminate their surroundings. Soon, there were no people to step over, only the occasional rock, half of which Thomas didn’t see until he’d already stumbled over them, biting back curses as he regained his balance. Minho didn’t stop, nor did he stumble. He was walking directly toward a wooded area that reminded Thomas eerily of the Deadheads. 

Thomas quickened his pace, catching up with Minho as the older boy reached the edge of the woods. Minho stopped so suddenly that Thomas had to swerve to avoid running into him.

“Give a guy some warning, shank,” Thomas said, keeping his voice low despite their distance from the others. He glanced back at their encampment, the vague outlines of sleeping people and the small bursts of light from low burning campfires, now nothing more than embers. He wasn’t sure, but they couldn’t be too far from dawn.

Minho was silent, his posture tense.

Thomas frowned and cleared his throat.

“What’s all this about? Why the sudden need for privacy?”

Minho turned to Thomas and the look on his friend’s face sent a shiver down his spine. It was cold and machine-like. It was completely out of place on the hot-headed boy’s face. 

And his voice… Thomas felt a cold dread settle in his stomach when Minho spoke. That sound would plague his nightmares for years to come.

But it was the words that made it all worse.

“Your participation in Phase Three of the Trials has been most informative,” Not-Minho said (because Thomas knew that this voice, these words and that cold look couldn’t belong to the boy he had run through the Maze and across the Scorch with). “WICKED appreciates your sacrifice.”

Thomas’s eyes widened, he felt his pulse speed up, jump into his throat as he tried to swallow around it. He opened his mouth to speak, but all that came out was something between a squeak and a gurgle. He felt the telltale sting that came before tears.

He stepped back and felt his heel catch something. He stumbled and landed on his butt, his teeth clicking together on impact. Somehow, there was no pain.

He wanted to scream, but somehow knew that the sound would never make it out.

Not-Minho stepped forward and knelt and Thomas didn’t do a thing, frozen as the world crashed down around him. 

“Your patterns have been logged and the variables adjusted,” Not-Minho said, his voice losing more and more of the human tone with each successive word. “It’s time to come back out.”

The thing wearing Minho’s face looked up and Thomas followed its gaze. The sky above them was black, not a star in sight. He looked to his right, the edge of the forest where Not-Minho had led him. Nothing. Only inky blackness, void as far as the eye could see.

He looked to the campsites, knowing what he would find but dreading it nonetheless. The campfires that had barely cast any glow were gone, and he knew it wasn’t because they went out. 

He looked back at Not-Minho. 

“No,” he muttered, his voice gravely and almost silent. He felt tears slip down his cheeks. He swallowed and repeated the word, louder but still weak to his own ears.

“Yes, Thomas,” Not-Minho said, and as it spoke, it seemed to be fading into darkness. “It’s already begun. You’re waking up.”

“No,” Thomas said again, his voice stronger now. His eyes were open, but he saw nothing, the entire world around him only a black abyss, devoid of everything.

A disembodied voice spoke once more, the sound now purely robotic.

“This concludes Phase Three of the Trials. WICKED thanks you for your participation, Subject A2.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As should have been fairly obvious from the ending of this prologue, Paradise was a farce, part of another trial. The events of The Death Cure did not technically occur, but that does not mean they will not have an impact on the story or characters.


	2. Of Days Gone By

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “We can only die in the future, I thought; right now we are always alive.” ― Amy Hempel, The Collected Stories

Thomas woke with a gasp, inhaling like a drowning man who just broke the surface. He tried to open his eyes, but there was something stopping him, something that made it impossible to crack open his eyelids. He tried to speak, but there was something in his mouth, clasped between his teeth and pressing his tongue flat.

He panicked. He tried to stand, but felt his arms strapped to something—armrests?—and his ankles, too. They were locked in so tight that he could feel pinpricks coming and going in his fingers and toes. He tried to twist, but he could barely arch his body away from the padded surface that he was lying on. He couldn’t even turn his head.

“Calm down,” a voice spoke. Female. Authoritative, but bored, like this was routine. “We can’t remove the nodes with you thrashing.”

A warm, gloved hand touched his arm and he paused before beginning anew, his heart hammering in his chest as hard as if he had just returned from running the Maze.

“If you don’t stop we’ll be forced to sedate you,” the voice said again. Thomas swallowed and focused on keeping himself still, regaining a sense of control over his panicky self. Every piece of him wanted to lash out, struggle and claw and twist until he was free. But he knew that escaping wouldn’t happen, not when he was blind and bound. His chest heaved with every inhale and the muscles of his arms and legs twitched with his efforts to keep them motionless. 

“Good,” the woman said after he was still. A few seconds later, Thomas felt her peel something sticky away from his forehead. Didn’t she say something about nodes? A second quickly followed, and one at each of his temples, on his neck behind his jaw, and—he realized he was shirtless—several on his chest and arms.

His heartbeat slowed, but it still beat too wildly. He felt the woman remove whatever was obscuring his eyes and he opened them.

He regretted that when he saw the bright light placed above him. His eyes snapped shut as he winced and tried to lift his arms to block his face, but he was thwarted by the restraints. He squeezed his eyes shut tighter. He was so used to the complete darkness that even the red of his eyelids was painful.

She tugged at the thing in his mouth.

“Where am I?” he said when it was gone. His voice came out in a croak. His throat was dry, like he hadn’t drank in days.

“You’re at the WICKED facility, Thomas,” she said. “Now don’t struggle.”

Before he could even decide if a struggle would be worth it, Thomas felt his wrists—and whatever encircled them—yanked from the armrests of the seat and clamped together with a sharp, metallic ping. He tried to pull them apart, but whatever now held them together was stronger than he was. 

The strap holding his head in place was next, unfastened and removed completely. He tilted his head down and tried to open his eyes again, but the light of the room made his eyes sting and water, even when it wasn’t directly in front of him. He did have time to register the vague outline of a dark haired woman untying his ankles before he squeezed his eyes shut again.

It didn’t last for long. The woman pried his left eye open and shined a light into it. He yelped and tried to sit up, but a second set of hands landed on his shoulders. These were gloved in some tough, heavy material, not latex like the woman’s.

As quickly as the light was there, it was gone.

A second voice spoke. This one was male, but garbled, like he was speaking through something.

“Is that all you need, Doctor?”

“Yes,” the woman replied, and Thomas was pulled to his feet by the man. His head spun and his legs trembled like jelly. “You can take him to one of the holding cells.”

Thomas chanced another look. He kept his eyes open this time, squinting against the light. The standing position put him above the brightest light in the room—the lamp above a chair that looked like something you’d see in a torture chamber or a dentist’s office—and offered him some relief. The rest of the room was sparse, with white walls and a few cabinets. It was otherwise empty save for the chair and the woman, who looked tall even when she sat and was dressed in blue scrubs. She was doing something with a screen attached to the chair, but Thomas couldn’t make out the words on the monitor.

The man tugged at Thomas’s arm and he stumbled, but dug his heels into the ground.

“What is that thing?” he said, jerking his chin toward the chair. “What the hell did you do to me? Where’s everyone else?”

The man’s hand tightened around Thomas’s arm and he winced and cast his best glare at him. He was dressed in a soldier’s uniform and on his chest was a patch bearing the name WICKED. His nose and mouth were covered by a black plastic mask dotted with tiny holes. There was a gun at his hip, and the hand that wasn’t gripping Thomas’s arm was at the ready to draw.

Even if he didn’t feel like klunk, the chances of him escaping were slim to none.

The man yanked him toward the door again.

“It’s all right, Tony,” the doctor said. “We’re past the point of secrecy.”

The woman stood and took a few measured steps toward them. She gestured toward the chair. “That is a simulation unit. It enables us to relay sensory information to your brain and record your responses. The other subjects are fine. They are undergoing procedures similar to yours.”

Thomas frowned. “Procedures…?”

“A part of the third phase,” she said, then, before Thomas could ask anything else, nodded to the soldier. “You can take him, Tony.”

* * *

Tony pulled him into a hallway that was less well kept than the… examination room? Torture chamber? The floor and walls were bare concrete and stained in places. The low lighting was easier on his pained eyes and he could keep them open without squinting.

He licked his lips. Or, he tried to. His tongue was dry and did nothing for his cracked, chapped lips. He glanced at the soldier and opened his mouth.

“No speaking,” the man said, his voice muffled behind the mask. Obviously he wasn’t as conversational as the doctor.

Thomas wasn’t exactly the obedient type, especially when it came to WICKED, but he wasn’t stupid, either. Pressing his luck now would be the definition of stupidity. He didn’t know where he was or what was going on. Five minutes ago, he was sleeping under the stars in their new paradise. Or he thought he was. Now he didn’t know what was real.

They continued down the hallway, passing closed doors, each of which bore a label. It only took Thomas a second to realize what they were. On the right, each number they passed was prefixed with an A, and on the left, a B. There were rooms for each Glader and each member of the girl’s group.

How many of them were occupied? There were more A doors than Gladers who survived the Scorch, so this place was obviously built before they set off across that wasteland, probably before they even escaped the Maze.

They were nearing the end of the corridor when he heard a piercing scream echo from behind them. It was so loud, so full of anguish and terror and pain, that Thomas stopped in his tracks. He only had a moment's pause before he was yanked along by Tony the guard.

He couldn’t even tell if it came from a boy or a girl, much less who. Thomas felt the dread inside his gut intensify at the thought of that sound belonging to one of his friends. 

The scream faded and in seconds it was as if it never even happened. They turned and descended a staircase, went partway down another corridor, all without seeing another living soul or hearing a sound other than their footsteps.

The soldier stopped in front of a door, unlabeled and made from dull metal full of rivets. He pulled a keycard from his belt with his free hand and waved it in front of a panel. The door clicked, then slid, disappearing into the wall. Before Thomas could do anything, he was shoved into the room, turning to keep his balance, and the door slid back into place, locking with a clang.

Thomas stared at it, his mind whirling from thought to thought, but unable to latch onto anything for more than a few seconds before it drifted away. He was locked in a cell by WICKED, again, and the last few days… had it all been a dream? A hallucination? Another trial, like Not-Minho said?

But since when? Since he hiked up the mountain after being dropped off by Right Arm, or sometime before?

“Tommy?”

He spun on his heel, and there, rising to stand from the bed, was at least one thing, one person he could use to gauge reality.

Newt. 

Looking like klunk, his hair dirty and long but not patchy as the last time Thomas had (imagined?) seen him. Most importantly, very much alive.

He could have cried, fell to his knees and sobbed like that night in the Maze, relieved that one thing worked out in his favor. Instead, he surged forward and flung his arms around Newt’s waist, grabbing the taller boy into a hug that would have been crushing if Thomas had the strength. 

Newt didn’t hesitate to reciprocate the embrace, folding his arms around Thomas’s shoulders. He felt the same sort of desperation in Newt’s hug as in his own. Newt had been through something similar to Thomas. He didn’t know what, but he knew that his friend had still been with him every step of the way. The thought made him sick, but it also made him feel a little less alone.

WICKED had taken more than Thomas’s freedom this time. They had done more than stick him into the middle of a deadly, almost unsolvable puzzle, told him he had a fatal disease and left him in the middle of a wasteland. They messed with his mind, made him see and hear and feel and do things that weren’t even real. And if what that woman had said was true, they were doing the same thing to his friends right now.

But in the moment, he was glad all that wasn’t real. At that moment, Newt was here, alive and uncranked, and that was all that mattered.

* * *

“Tommy, you’re freezin’.”

He wasn’t sure how long they stood there, but Newt took him by the shoulders and slowly pushed him off. Thomas slipped his arms out from around Newt’s waist and frowned.

Wasn’t he handcuffed? He looked down at his wrists, and each one was tied with a thick strap, like an overgrown zip-tie. On the inside of each wrist was a thick metal plate.

“They stick together,” Newt said. He held out his own wrists, wrapped in identical straps. “And they unstick when you go through the door. Electromagnetics or some klunk, I figure.”

“Newt, how—” His throat was scratchy and his voice came out in a frog like croak. He tried to swallow, but it was like his throat was filled with sand. 

“Hold on,” Newt said, moving to the right where a metal sink clung to the wall, pipes exposed. As the sound of running water filled the cell, Thomas took the opportunity to look around. The floor and walls were the same bare concrete as the corridors, and a narrow aisle stretched from the door to the opposite wall, flanked by bunk beds. To the right of the door was a steel toilet and sink.

The tap shut off and Newt handed him a paper cup filled with water. Thomas drank it without stopping to breathe. When he finished, his mouth and throat felt something akin to normal, though he imagined he could have downed another three or four cups. 

Newt pushed past him and grabbed something from the top of one of the bunks. He held it out for Thomas. A shirt, white and long sleeved.

For the first time, Thomas realized the cold. He set the cup into the sink and grabbed the shirt, slipping it on. Now the only problem was the icy cement biting into his bare feet. Judging from Newt’s similar predicament, WICKED didn’t care if their subjects lost a few toes to frostbite.

“Sit down, Tommy,” Newt said, the ghost of a smile on his lips. It didn’t reach his eyes. “Ya look like klunk warmed over.”

Thomas gave his own little smile.

“You don’t look much better yourself,” he said and took a seat on one of the bunks. Newt sat across from him, fingers laced together and elbows resting on his knees. 

“Have you seen anyone else?” Thomas said. 

Newt shook his head. “Been sittin’ here alone for… dunno how bloody long, but more than an hour. You’re the first I seen since the buggin’ guard locked me in here.”

Thomas nodded. He wanted to ask so many questions, but he couldn’t seem to settle on one long enough for the words to form. 

“Heard a few,” Newt said. “When they were walkin’ me down that hallway.”

“The one with all the doors,” Thomas said. It wasn’t a question. It didn’t need to be, but Newt nodded all the same. “Do you think we’re the only ones?”

The only ones done, or kept, or even alive. Thomas didn’t know which he was asking for, but he didn’t expect an answer anyway. He jumped to his feet. The idea of sitting down while WICKED unabashedly pulled their strings was suddenly unfathomable. 

“How did we get into this klunk?” he spat out, pacing down up and down the short, narrow walkway between the bunk beds.. “When did we even…”

“Sometime after the Scorch,” Newt said, his voice sounding sure. “I figure after we conked out on the berg.”

Thomas let out a laugh, devoid of all humor. “How can we say for sure? How do we even know what’s real?”

“Your scar,” Newt said. “From gettin’ shot. It’s still there.”

Thomas paused. He pulled his shirt down over his shoulder. Sure enough, the white, raised flesh from his encounter with a bullet marred the skin near his armpit. 

Thomas bent down and yanked up the leg of his cotton pants until it was over his knee. No mark, scar or any indication of the bullet that grazed him during their previous escape from WICKED headquarters.

When he straightened, Newt was giving him a curious look. 

“I got shot,” Thomas said quickly. “In the leg. The, uh… the last time we were here.”

“Uh huh,” Newt said. “I take it the ‘last time’ happened in a chair up there.”

Thomas sighed and reclaimed his spot on the bed. “You too?”

“All of us, I imagine. I shuckin’ thought that we,” Newt stopped and swallowed and shook his head. “Don’t bloody matter anyhow.”

“I thought we beat them, too,” Thomas said. A part of him wanted to tell Newt what happened to him in Thomas’s simulation. But the image of Newt’s descent into insanity and his final moments was too fresh in Thomas’s mind. So was the guilt. 

Thomas sat there, staring at a stain on the concrete floor. He sat there until the growing dryness of his throat became too much to ignore and he rose and downed two more cups of water. 

“We should sleep,” Newt said and he was already laying back on a bunk when Thomas turned to face him. “Who knows what they’ll put us through next.”

He didn’t like the idea of waiting until WICKED made the next move, but knew there wasn’t a choice. They were stuck in this room until WICKED decided otherwise.

He took the bed across from Newt’s, laid down, and closed his eyes. Sleep shouldn’t have come easy, but the soft sound of Newt’s breathing—living, healthy Newt—won out in the end, and Thomas drifted into unconsciousness.

* * *

_Teresa’s voice warbled in and out like bad radio reception._

_She stood at a console, a frown creasing her forehead. She was reading something on paper, but he couldn’t make it out._

_“—odd, scans are showing that— —wasn’t befo,” she said, half of the words wavering so low that Thomas couldn’t catch them. He couldn’t even read her lips, the scene growing blurry and then sharp again, a camera that couldn’t adjust. “—been the sting?”_

_“Different patterns— —lot of things,” he heard himself say. “A12— —reaction to the—”_

_Through it all, only one sentence came out clear and whole:_

_“This could be our breakthrough.”_

* * *

His dream was cut short by the hiss of the door sliding open. He sat up, rubbing at his eyes. A guard stood outside of the doorway, a rifle clutched in his hands. Thomas didn’t know if he was the same guard as before. The only distinguishing features were the eyes, and Thomas hadn’t cared enough to notice Tony’s.

“Time to go,” the guard said. Thomas’s heartbeat spiked. He glanced at Newt. ‘Time to go’ sounded a lot like what they said to prisoners being led to execution.

They didn’t have much of a choice. If they disobeyed, the guard may just decide to shoot them in that room and be done with it. He exchanged another silent look with Newt and hoped they were on the same page: If an opportunity presented itself, they needed to act.

Newt stood and approached the door. Thomas followed.

“Hands in front, wrists together,” the guard ordered, stepping to the side.

Thomas complied. As he followed Newt through the doorway, he felt his wrists tugged together, the metal plates connecting. He tried to tug them apart, but it was in vain and only served to make the plastic band dig painfully into his skin.

“Walk.”

He fell into step beside Newt with the guard behind them. Their footsteps soon fell into tandem, the guard’s heavy boots and the slap of his and Newt’s bare feet. The rhythm’s only disturbance was Newt’s limp.

Thomas glanced frantically around the corridor. There was no end in sight and the doors they passed were identical to every other, bearing no markings or labels. All were closed, and the corridor itself never branched or split.

He leaned over to Newt. “D—”

Something hit him in the back and he winced. It wasn’t hard enough to knock him over, but it hit him right on the shoulder blade, against bone.

He glanced back. The guard was readjusting his rifle.

“No talking,” he said. “You’ll get your peace.”

They returned to the silent march, and dread filled Thomas’s stomach with each step. Did WICKED deem them useless now? Had they failed their Trials? Is this how it would end, marched to die like cattle?

No. Thomas wouldn’t let that happen. He just got Newt back, and he wouldn’t fail him again. He didn’t know how, but he would figure something out.

Ahead, the end of the corridor was coming into view. Thomas squinted. Doors? He would find out soon enough.

“Are ya takin’ us to die?” Newt broke the onerous silence without warning. Thomas steeled himself for the blow that he knew would strike his friend, but it never came.

The guard laughed. Thomas saw Newt’s jaw clench.

“We deserve to know,” he spat through gnashed teeth.

The guard continued to laugh, the sound made all the worse through the mask.

“Don’t worry, kid,” he said. “You’re not dying today.”

Thomas and Newt exchanged worried glances, but neither spoke up at the guard proclamation. It wouldn’t be the first time WICKED had lied, and, regardless, that addendum—not today—did little to settle Thomas’s nerves.

The end of the corridor was growing closer now, and Thomas could clearly see that the hall terminated in a set of double doors. The white, pristinely painted surface contrasted with the rest of the concrete tunnel. Within a minute, they stopped in front of the closed doors.

“Open it and go in,” the guard said. “No funny shit.”

He glanced at Newt, who shrugged. Thomas reached for one of the handles, the angle awkward but manageable, and pulled.

Once he had the door open, the guard shoved both of them inside and it closed behind them. Thomas tried to tug his hands apart, but the cuffs held strong.

Then, he took in the room.

Around twenty-five Gladers and girls from Group B sat on long, black benches laid out in two rows in the middle of a large room, their hands bound like his own. Thomas scanned the crowd for familiar faces, and saw most of the boys he had traversed the Scorch with, including Frypan and Aris. No Minho. He searched the faces of the Girls. He saw Harriet and Sonya, but Teresa was missing. He felt a momentary surge of panic, part of his brain telling him that it was because she had died, crushed under rubble saving his life. He had to remind himself that she couldn’t be dead—Newt’s presence was living proof that nothing he saw was real.

“Newt!” a voice called. Frypan stood up and approached them. “Thomas. Glad to see you guys are alright.”

“You too, ya bloody shank,” Newt said, shaking Frypan’s hand, pulling him into a half hug.

Thomas would have done the same if his attention hadn’t been elsewhere. Across from them, instead of a wall there was a massive window, spanning from floor to ceiling and the whole length of the room.

Outside was nothing like the Scorch. The world was filled with white, with specks of brown and green peeking out here and there.

He moved past Frypan and Newt, not even registering that they were still talking, and past a raised platform that hugged the wall in front of the benches. Outside, flakes swirled down from a gray-white sky above, dancing in the wind and falling into the sea of snow covering the ground.

He pressed his hands to the glass. It was icy cold. In the past, some of part of him wondered if the entire world was like the Scorch, barren and cracked, burning and inhospitable. But here, or out there at least, life went on. Pine trees, some so tall he thought they might have given the walls of the Maze a run for their money, were green and growing and alive.

Thomas was shocked from his contemplations by the click of the door and a familiar voice.

“—Your whole shucking family!”

Thomas spun in place, just fast enough to see the door close as Minho kicked it. Next to him, far more composed, was Teresa.


	3. Cracked and Broken

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I used to advertise my loyalty and I don't believe there is a single person I loved that I didn't eventually betray.” ― Albert Camus, The Fall

Thomas jogged across the room, the dread and anxiety of the last few hours forgotten with the appearance of his friends. Newt and Frypan reached them first.

“What the bloody hell happened to your eye?” Newt said, grabbing Minho’s shirt to force the Runner to face him.

When Thomas reached the little group, he saw what Newt was talking about. Minho’s left eye was swollen shut, red and purpling in areas. Minho grinned.

“Spit on a guard,” he said, pride oozing through every word. “Good aim, too. Middle of the forehead.”

Newt scoffed. “Real smart, that.”

“Good to see you, too.”

“He’s lucky they didn’t shoot him,” Teresa said. She glanced at Thomas and small smile sprang to her lips. “Tom. I’m glad to see you’re OK.”

Thomas hesitated. Part of him was glad to see her. He remembered those last moments, before he stepped into the flat trans, and those last, weak words that she tried to speak.

But that was all in his head. This Teresa never died for him. This Teresa followed WICKED’s orders and betrayed Thomas, left him for dead. She said it was necessary, but…

“You too,” Thomas said. He didn’t know exactly how he felt about Teresa anymore, but that much was true. He was glad she was OK.

A loud buzz filled the air and Thomas felt his hands pop apart. The others were freed, too, and the buzz faded away. Minho turned and tried to open the door, but it wouldn’t budge.

“Try the others,” he said, pointing to three doors in the back of the room. Before any of them could take a step, a swoosh sounded from behind the platform. A split appeared on the wall, near the middle and almost as tall as Thomas. The sections of wall on each side of the split slowly pulled away from each other, disappearing behind the wall on each side.

A huge television screen was recessed in the wall. The screen was on, but it was blank and white.

Something crackled all around them and a person stepped into the frame.

Rat Man. Thomas snarled and fought back the urge to run up and start wailing on the screen. Blood pounded though his ears as the Rat Man (Was Janson even his name, or something created by Thomas himself?) smiled. The room was silent, no murmuring or even shuffling to be heard. The Rat Man had their full attention.

“Congratulations,” he said. “On completing your second and third trials.”

A rabble broke out as the adult’s words broke the dam of silence and let loose a torrent of questions, accusations, and insults. Thomas couldn’t make out most of it, but among the voices he heard demands for the cure and calls for an explanation.

“Please,” Rat Man held out his hands like he was trying to calm a group of school children. “Everything will be explained in time. Just be patient and settle down.”

Rat Man sat with his hands clasped together, silent until the rabble began to die down.

“I’m sure you’re all very confused about recent events,” Rat man said. “What you have just experienced was an augmented reality, a simulation created unique to each of you according to your responses to the variables during the first and second Trials.

“We apologize for not preparing you beforehand as we did before you set out across the Scorch, but a seamless entry into Phase Three was necessary for accurate pattern collection. Those patterns are being analyzed by our technicians. Until the process is complete and we determine how to proceed, you will be housed here. Behind you are two dormitories and a kitchen.”

“Who cares about that?” a girl who Thomas didn’t know called out. “I wanna know where our cure’s at.”

Rat Man’s lips thinned. “You were promised that your arrival here would be met with a cure for the Flare,” he said. “And in some ways that is true. However, as it stands, we do not have a cure.”

Pandemonium broke out, but it only affected half of the people in the room.. Some leapt from their seats, shouted curses and lobbed threats at the man on the screen. Others sat passively, and Thomas wondered if the idea of immunity popped up in their simulation’s too. But even those were silent looked as if they were plotting the most enjoyable way to kill the man in front of them.

“It’s all klunk,” Minho muttered. “It’s nothing but klunk.”

The Rat Man yelled over the din.

“Order, or I will reactivate your RMCU’s and have the guards subdue you.”

Whether it was the threat of restraint or violence, the Gladers quieted down, but not before a few more death threats were uttered.

“As I said, we do not have a cure, but for those of you who are immune, this is not a concern.”

Immune. How much of Thomas’s simulation had been based upon reality? He cast a sidelong glance at Newt. The blond boy was biting his thumb nail and staring at the screen. This was all playing out too close to his dream, what he spent days—weeks—thinking was reality. Immunity.

That word kept echoing in Thomas’s head, along with three others he knew he would never be able to forget.

“Those of you,” he said, barely louder than a whisper. He cleared his throat. “What do you mean ‘those of you’?”

The Rat Man hesitated and his gaze flowed over the crowd. Any answer he gave now could set the Gladers off again, and there were already more than a few whispering about the prospect of immunity. He might have to make good on his threat of force.

“Every accurate experiment requires a control group,” Rat Man said. “Most of you are immune. You were acquired because of this trait. Some of you are not and have been used to test the effect of the variables on non-immune brain structures.”

Everyone looked cautiously around at each other. The same thought was written plainly on all their faces: Who wasn’t immune? Which of their friends was going to die?

Thomas couldn’t stop himself from glancing at Newt every few seconds.

_Please, Tommy. Please._

He squeezed his hand into a fist, felt the tingling kickback of the gun when he pulled the trigger.

“Every one of you has been infected,” Rat Man broke the silence. “Immunity only suspends the degenerative progression of the disease. If you want to help your friends, save them the descent into madness, you will choose to be WICKED’s allies. Not our enemies.”

The screen went blank and the wall crept back into place.

The room didn’t burst into a flurry of sound and movement like Thomas expected. Rather, a somber silence filled the air.

Minho marched up and stood on the raised floor. Hands on his hips, he surveyed the crowd of downtrodden teenagers.

“You heard the Rat Man,” he said, spitting the nickname like acid. “We got two dorms, girls in one and guys in the other. Get going and check it out.”

If anyone wanted to contest Minho’s leadership, none of them spoke up. A few of the girls looked hesitant, but as the boys rose without question and proceeded to the back of the room, Harriet gestured to the members of Group B to do the same.

 Minho waved them over.

“Frypan?” he said when they were close. “Go see what sorry excuse for a kitchen they gave us, will ya? I’m hungry.”

The cook nodded and followed the crowd.

In minutes, four of them were standing there. Thomas could hear the muffled sounds of conversation from the dorms.

“We should get some ice,” Newt said. “For your eye.”

“Who cares?” Minho said, frowning. “What we need to do is figure out how to get the shuck out of here.”

“You think that’s going to happen?” Teresa said. “You saw the guard, his gun, his--”

“I saw  _a_  guard,” Minho said. “Place is a shucking ghost town otherwise.”

“You really think there’s only one?”

“Do I look like some kind of slinthead to you?” Minho said, then his eyes narrowed and he pointed a finger at  Teresa. “Why are you even a part of this conversation? Last I remember, you were busy hauling Thomas off in a shucking bag, so why don’t you join the rest of the girls and go shu—”

“I did what I had to to survive,” Teresa said. Her eyes had grown colder as Minho spoke, but they softened as she cast a pleading gaze toward Thomas. “For Thomas to survive.”

“So did we, and it never involved throwing him, or anyone, to the dogs.”

Teresa scoffed.

_Thomas, please. I can help._

Thomas winced, the feeling of Teresa in his mind strangely unfamiliar after so long without it. His reaction must have given him away, because Newt spoke up.

“None of that,” he said. He didn’t look nearly as angry as Minho did at Teresa’s presence, but the glances he kept sending her way made it clear he wasn’t exactly thrilled that she was there. Thomas wasn’t even sure he was. “Either use your bloody words so we all can hear, or slim it.”

Teresa’s gaze didn’t leave Thomas.

 _I can’t make them trust you_ , he called out to her.

Teresa frowned. “Typical,” she muttered, so quietly that Thomas wasn’t sure he heard it, and then walked away.

“Good riddance,” Minho said, not even attempting to quiet his voice. Newt elbowed him in the side and Minho raised an eyebrow—the one over his uninjured eye—in response.

Thomas sighed and sat on the edge of the platform, hunched over. Newt joined him, but Minho remained standing.

“Any suggestions?” the Asian boy said.

Thomas shook his head and stared out the window, where snow was starting to fall heavier.

“You said you never saw more than one guard?” Newt said, casting a look over his shoulder. Minho must have nodded or something, because Newt continued. “Tommy an’ me, neither. Frypan said it was the same for him and Carter. One escort after the experiment was to the cell, then one here. Said he came when there was only a couple of people and they brought everyone in two at a time.”

“Well it’s not like they need more than one guard for a couple of handcuffed kids,” Minho said. Thomas heard a thunk and turned around. Minho was facing the wall that hid the television screen, running his hands over the surface.  “Completely smooth, not even a line,” he knocked on it.  “Doesn’t even sound hollow. They’re playing with us.”

“They’re always playing with us,” Thomas muttered.

“Thank you for the valuable observation, Thomas,” Minho spat, turning and glaring with his one good eye. “When you two have a shucking useful idea, come tell me.”

Without another word, Minho pushed past Thomas and Newt and jumped down from the platform. He crossed the room, kicking a bench and knocking it out of place, and disappeared into the boy’s dormitory.

Thomas raised his eyebrows and looked at Newt, who was staring at the door Minho disappeared through, a crease in his forehead.

“He,” Newt started and then paused. “It’s stressful for us all.”

“Yeah,” Thomas said, nodding. “We’ll all feel better after we get some of Frypan’s food in us and an actual night of sleep.”

An hour later, the food problem was solved when Frypan hollered at everyone to form a chow line. He handed out paper bowls of spaghetti from a giant pot and a girl from Group B passed out rolls and plastic forks. Cups of water were spread out over a bench. They had no dining area, so everyone sat with their bowls balanced on their laps or used the long benches as tables and sat on the floor.

Everyone was in new clothing, t-shirts and light jackets and pants of a heavy material. Socks and shoes were probably the biggest boost to morale, since the floors here were as bare and cold as those of the corridor outside.

It reminded Thomas of the Glade. They hadn’t had a real, cooked, communal meal like this since then, surviving on the scraps left for them by WICKED or scavenged wherever they could. Frypan, too, looked happy to be cooking again, and he actually smiled at Thomas when he handed over his spaghetti.

He was waved over by Newt, who was sitting on the platform with Minho, Harriet, and Sonya.

“...can’t be all that strong, don’t look reinforced or nothing,” Minho said. He seemed to be over whatever mood he was in earlier.

“Yeah, but we don’t know what’s out there,” Harriet said through a mouthful of bread. “We don’t know what they have for guards or even a way out.”

“It’s better than being stuck in here,” Minho insisted.

“Not if it gets us killed,” Newt said. He was picking at his spaghetti, the food barely touched. “Like she said, even if we get out, where do we go? All I saw out there was hallways and doors, too bloody many to check before we attracted attention, and on top of that these buggin’ cuffs will lock the second we step out that door.”

“There were windows,” Sonya said. She had a smudge of marinara sauce on her cheek, but didn’t seem to notice. “Down the other way of the hallway. I remember when they pulled me out, they were bright, like it was sunrise.”

“Windows on the second story don’t help us. Besides, we got a window here,” Minho jerked a thumb over his shoulder to the large glass wall. Outside, the snow had taken on the golden hue of sunset.

“Why don’t we just break the window?” Thomas said. Silence followed. He glanced up from his spaghetti. Each of the others were staring at him.

"What?” Thomas asked. The silent stares continued for a few more seconds until Newt smiled.

“Yeah, why don’t we just break the window?” he said, looking at Minho.

“Oh slim it, shuck face,” Minho said, elbowing Newt in the side a little harder than necessary. Newt’s grin didn’t falter. “You didn’t think of it either.”

 Minho set aside his empty bowl and hopped down from the raised floor and walked over to the window. Thomas followed and he heard the others get up and shuffle behind him.

 Minho rapped on the glass with his knuckles and the clear sound reverberated through the room.

“It’ll be loud,” he said. “And cold. We’ll have to run like hell. And the cuffs could still be a problem.”

“Cuffs’d be a problem anyhow,” Newt said. “We can get a bunch of guys together, use a bench as a battering ram.”

“Good that. We’ll wait until everyone’s done,” Minho said. “Grab sheets, make packs for the food in the kitchen. Lots of snow, we won’t need water.”

A hour after Thomas’s suggestion, the makeshift packs were well under way and Frypan was overseeing the distribution of what little food the kitchen had, as well as pans for melting snow and blankets for warmth. In addition to their group, Newt had gathered together three more Gladers and a girl whose arms were almost as muscled as Minho’s. Sonya hung back with a small group of girls, holding pillows from the bunks at the ready to clear glass away once they were through the window.

When everyone who wasn’t about to go ramming through a window had a pack tied around their chest like a sash, Thomas and the others moved a bench into place. On the window, a few feet off the ground, Harriet had painted a crude bullseye with spaghetti sauce.

Thomas was as the head, opposite Minho, with Harriet, the other girl, and a Glader behind him.

 Minho stepped up onto the bench, so he towered over everyone. He looked ahead at the crowd of teenagers.

“Plan’s simple,” he said. “We bust through, Sonya and her girls make a hole big enough, and then we run like hell. Stick together, no stopping for shuck all. Clear?”

 Minho’s speech inspired nothing more than vague murmurs, but he stepped down from the bench unperturbed.

“You got a real way with words,” Newt said, and then smirked. “We’re all bloody inspired.”

“You got a real way with getting on my nerves,” Minho said, though he looked less angry and more anxious. He grabbed the bench. “Ready? On three.”

With eight of them, the bench was light, its weight barely noticeable. For a fleeting second, Thomas wondered if it would be the bench breaking the window or the other way around.

“One,” Minho said and they all took a step back, and then another. “Two.”

Thomas inhaled, dug his feet into the ground, and thought of how amazing it would feel to walk free over that snow, to run again, through trees and fields rather than the Maze.

“Three!” Minho yelled and they all surged forward as one, a cohesive unit dedicated to one purpose.

The bench bounced off the window with a clang.

“Again,” Minho ordered and they were already backing up as he began to count. On three, they ran forward again.

The bench bounced off the window again, smearing the spaghetti bullseye. Again they retreated and again the bench harmlessly slammed against the window.

After the eighth try, they were all red faced and puffing. Minho called for them to set the bench down. He walked forward and inspected the smear of red, its previous shape long since lost.

Thomas looked down at the bench. It was dented. The paint was flecked with sauce and one of the corners was pounded in.

 Minho was crouched in front of the window, gazing at the seam where it met the ground and continued downward out of sight.

“It’s as thin as a shucking noodle,” he said, standing up. “How the shuck does it not break?”

They tried two more times in vain, each set of hits doing nothing to the pane and only damaging the bench further. After the twelfth or thirteenth try on their last go, a leg from the bench fell to the floor with a clang.  They dropped the bench on its side and Minho surged forward, slapping the window with an open palm. His hair was sweaty and hung into his eyes.

The Runner lobbed a punch at the window, his fist making a far duller, fleshier tone than the bench had. Minho punched a second time, a third, but the glass gave no evidence of breaking any more than it had with the bench. It didn’t even shake.

Newt stepped forward and put a hand on Minho’s shoulder. The shorter boy stopped his assault, but glared violently at the glass that separated them from freedom, his fists clenched at his sides.

“All right, you sticks!” Harriet called out once she caught her breath. “We obviously gotta think this through a little more. I want ya’ll to stack your packs in the kitchen and find something to occupy yourselves. Savvy?”

Looking more dejected than ever, the group dissipated.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a heads up: The quotes at the beginning of every chapter do serve a purpose. They are very carefully selected and though everything may not become apparent until later, it is worth paying attention to them.


	4. I Heard a Whisper on the Wind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You realize that our mistrust of the future makes it hard to give up the past.” ― Chuck Palahniuk, Survivor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Merry Christmas!

Most people went to bed following the resounding failure that had been their escape plan. Minho had spent a long time pacing along the window, muttering to himself before falling into bed without a word.

Thomas knew he wouldn’t be able to sleep. He spent the time while people were mulling around staring out at the unchanging landscape beyond their reach. For a time, he had feared that Teresa would try to speak with him, but the girl seemed to be giving him the cold shoulder ever since he refused to defend her to Minho and Newt.

It had been almost an hour since the last person had wandered into the dormitory, and Thomas sat unmoving in front of the window, propped up against the overturned bench.

The world outside was a blazing wonderland of white, the snow shining brightly in the moonlight, an amazing contrast to the inky black sky that was visible just above the tops of trees.

“Bloody huge difference from the Scorch.”

Thomas looked up. Newt stood behind him, his arms folded and his WICKED issue jacket, black like all the others, tied around his waist. 

“Mind if we talk?”

“Sure,” Thomas said and Newt sat down next to him, his long legs stretched in front of him.

Newt didn’t seem to be in any hurry to speak. They sat in silence for a while, staring out into the woods. The snow stopped falling hours ago, the clouds drifting away to reveal the sky. Thomas thought he spied some movement far off under the canopy of trees, but he wasn’t close enough to see for sure. 

“Talk about what?” Thomas said after what felt like an eternity. He glanced at Newt. His friend criss crossed his legs and sat forward. He licked his lips.

“There’s been a lot of talk around the boys dorm, and the girl’s too, according to Teresa,” he said. Thomas frowned and wondered if Newt had somehow gotten on better terms with the girl over the course of the evening. “About the Flare. About who isn’t immune.”

Thomas pushed away the thought of Teresa and Newt. “We figured we all had it, didn’t we?” he said, trying and failing to quell the nervous tension he felt at the idea of Newt once again lacking immunity and falling victim to the disease. He didn’t know if he could live through that again.

“We also thought there was a cure,” Newt reminded him. “Now we know that some of us have it and there isn’t shuck we can do.”

“We don’t know that anyone has it,” Thomas said. “The whole thing could be another lie from WICKED, or even if it’s not, who’s to say they got it?”

“We walked the whole shuck way through that city, Tommy,” Newt said. “We were arm and arm with Brenda and Jorge. I ain’t heard much about the Flare, but it’s got to be bloody contagious with how hard WICKED’s trying to find a cure.”

“Who, then?” Thomas said, pounding a fist against the ground. He hadn’t even considered Brenda and Jorge. If that whole thing was a simulation, then they weren’t really immune. Had WICKED sent them back to the city, or just killed them outright to save the trip? “Who are they saying has it?”

Newt stilled. “Nobody’s naming names,” he said. “Everybody’s on edge. I don’t think people want to start any klunk without good cause.”

“But people suspect?” Thomas said. Newt gave a reluctant nod. He was staring out the window and worrying his bottom lip between his teeth. Thomas had never seen him look so… anxious didn’t sum it up entirely. There was a sadness mixed in, like he was dreading something. “You suspect.”

 Newt nodded again, one quick, sharp jerk of his head. Thomas didn’t want to ask. He didn’t want the answer.

“Who?” he said, his voice painfully loud in the silent room. Newt shook his head and Thomas prodded again. “Who, Newt?”

“Minho,” he said, spitting the word out quickly like saying it hurt him. He drew in a breath and Thomas didn’t want to acknowledge how shaky it was. “I think Minho.”

Thomas shook his head. “Why him?”

“Shuck, Tommy,” Newt said, letting out a huff that he thought was supposed to be a laugh. “You saw him today, bloody snapping at everything.”

“He’s always like that,” Thomas said. He could feel the beat of his heart pick up as ran through every interaction with Minho today. “You said it yourself—everyone’s on edge, and Minho’s our leader.”

“It’s not just that,” Newt said he leaned in closer to Thomas. “When we were in the city, it was like… like he was enjoying every time we got into a bloody fight. And when he attacked Jorge when we first arrived? He’s a bloody slinthead, but he doesn’t swing before he thinks like that.”

Thomas frowned, and tried to think of a reply, but Newt continued. 

“At the time, of course I thought it was the Flare—we all had it according to WICKED—but what if it actually was?”

Thomas paused to take the information in. Newt had known Minho far longer than he had, so he couldn’t write off the other boy’s judgment because of his own wishful thinking. He hated the idea of either of his friends turning into a crank, but Minho would almost be worse. He spent more time with Minho, hours running together in the Maze and days in his head. 

“What do we do then?”

His question was so quiet he wasn’t sure if Newt would hear him, even in the stillness of the room. Newt’s arms were folded tight in front of his chest, and he was blinking twice as fast as normal.

“Teresa said,” and there is was again, the mention of Teresa. Since when were she and Newt so buddy-buddy? “That maybe it would be worth sticking around, to see if WICKED really can make a cure.”

Thomas raised his eyebrows. “Do you really believe that?”

It was a few long seconds before Newt answered, so long that Thomas was sure he wouldn’t respond. He shook his head slowly, the tips of his hair touching his shoulders.

“No,” he said, rising to his feet. He turned away from Thomas and started toward the dormitory. “I don’t.” 

* * *

Thomas woke to the bustle around him. It looked like he was the last one up, the other boys around him with wet hair and bare feet. He groaned and sat up in bed. He didn’t stay up much longer after his conversation with Newt, but it had been late even then, and the Gladers were used to being early risers.

Something damp landed over his head.

“Water’s still warm,” Minho said. Thomas pulled the towel away and gazed at their leader. Minho’s damp hair curled around his ears and hung into his eyes as he tied his shoes. The blackened eye was darker today, but it looked like he could open it a little more now. He looked far less moody this morning than he had yesterday, and Thomas hoped that last night’s conversation had been nothing more than Newt over analyzing everything.

“You need a haircut. You’re starting to look like one of the girls,” Thomas said. He paused a beat. “Or Newt.”

Minho laughed. “I’m no where near as far gone as that shank,” he said. He finished with his laces and stood up. “Besides, you ain’t much better yourself. Frypan’s cooking breakfast and you don't want to show up smelling like klunk, yeah?”

“Good that,” Thomas muttered as Minho left the room.

It was a good way to start the morning: a shower (and god, how he needed it, days and days of Scorch sand and crank city grime embedded into his every pore), a decent breakfast (Thomas didn’t even want to guess how many eggs Frypan used), and Minho in a much better mood. Newt noticed, too, and he was smiling as he and Minho debated the logistics of tearing down the vent hood over the stove in the kitchen and trying to escape through the duct. Frypan was staunchly opposed to this idea.

As they were clearing their breakfast, Harriet approached what had now become their usual spot on the stage. She nodded to Thomas and gave him a small smile before addressing Minho.

“Can I speak to you?” she said. Her face was serious. “One on one.”

Minho glanced at the others before nodding and hopping off the bench. Thomas watched as he and Harriet walked over to a corner near the window, out of earshot.

“Wonder what that’s all about,” Thomas mused.

“Leadery stuff, I guess,” Newt said, but he kept his eyes trained on the pair in the corner.

“Leading what?” Thomas said. “There’s not anything going on in here. Might as well be organizing a game of charades.”

“Hey, don’t knock it,” Newt said. “Me an’ Minho always won. Might not be able to compete with you and Teresa, though. Telepathy's bloody cheating.”

Thomas gave an absent nod and he scanned the room for Teresa. She was sitting nearby with a small cluster of girls, her back to Thomas. He considered calling out to her in his mind, opening the lines of communication again, but decided it would be best to let her make the first move. After all, if she was talking to Newt, she couldn't have been too upset over yesterday. 

He wouldn’t admit to himself about how bothered he was by the fact that she was talking to him and not to Thomas.

Thomas saw Minho and Harriet breaking apart, the dark skinned girl walking back toward the bench where Teresa sat. Minho didn't return to them, instead approaching a bench where several boys sat. Minho put a hand on the shoulder of one and leaned over to speak to him. A second later, they were both headed to the dormitory, closing the door behind them. Newt gave Thomas a confused look and hopped off the platform. 

Thomas got up to follow, but before he knew it, Teresa was in front of him.

"Tom," she said, the corners of her lips perking up. “I thought maybe we could… talk.”

Thomas glanced across the room. Newt was leaning against the wall by the closed door. 

He was about to make an excuse, but the hopeful glint in her blue eyes did him in.

“Sure,” he said, and they took a seat on the stage.

Thomas gripped the edge of the stage. He had a lot of that ‘we need to talk’ business in the last few days. It never ended well. Unlike the previous times, though, Teresa went right to the point.

“I know you don’t trust me,” she said. “I don’t blame you. I don’t think anybody trusts me, except maybe Aris. But I need you to know that I’m on your side.”

He felt Teresa’s hand come to rest over his.

“Whatever happens, I’m always going to be on your side,” she said, squeezing his hand. “But you need to be careful.”

“Careful? What do you mean?” Thomas was torn between pulling his hand away and leaving it in the warm embrace of Teresa’s.

“That escape attempt last night? It was stupid, flat out,” she said. “I knew you wouldn’t listen if I said anything, but it was never going to work.”

“Well I’m sorry, I thought a window that big would break pretty easy.”

“It’s not just that. Even if we broke the window, they’re never going to let us escape,” Teresa said. She glanced around the room, but she wasn’t looking at the other occupants. She was looking along the tops of the walls, at the ceiling. “They’re always watching, Thomas. They are always, always watching, and I don’t want you to—”

A yell, then some bangs and a series of escalating shouts rang out from the boy’s dormitory. Thomas pulled his hand away from Teresa and jumped off the platform.

Everyone else rushed toward the sound, and by the time Thomas reached the dorm, he had to push his way through a crowd of people. The door stood open, and when Thomas crossed the threshold, whatever went down was over. Minho was standing on one side of the room, his hands clenched into fists. Newt was behind him, hands grasping Minho’s arms. On the other side of the room was one of the Gladers, breathing heavily and dabbing a split lip.

“You’re psychotic,” the guy said, rubbing at the blood trailing down his chin with the sleeve of his jacket. “You know that, right?”

Minho struggled in Newt’s grasp, but there wasn’t any real effort in it. He mumbled something that Thomas couldn’t make out and Newt loosened his grip, Minho stepping away from him.

“What I said stands,” Minho said. “I’m not taking the fallout for your klunk.”

Thomas could hear murmurs behind him. Everyone sounded just as confused as he was, and he wondered what this entire thing was about. Minho stepped forward until he was standing right in front of the guy. The other Glader was taller, but Thomas knew who he’d bet on if this came to blows again. He saw Newt shift his footing, readying himself to move forward if he had to.

“If you’re having a problem keeping your hands to yourself,” Minho said. His voice was quiet, meant only for the Glader in front of him. Thomas could barely make them out and he was sure most of those behind him couldn’t hear. “I’m sure Frypan has some very sharp knives in the kitchen to help with that problem.”

He saw the Glader’s eyes widen at the threat. Thomas hoped it was all for show, but if Newt’s suspicion was correct…

Thomas remembered his first few days in the Glade, when he had watched the Keepers—Minho and Newt among them—dole out Ben’s punishment for attacking Thomas. None of them had hesitated to shove Ben to certain death, even though he had been their friend.

But even then, the decision was a group one, and the blame for Ben’s death was shared and indirect. This was different.

“Now get lost,” Minho said, louder now. He backed away and looked at the crowd. “All you shanks, beat it!”

The crowd dispersed, clearly unwilling to question an angry Minho. Thomas stayed where he was, jostled only when the bleeding Glader pushed past him in his hurry to exit the room.

Thomas slipped into the room, closing the door behind him. Minho and Newt were seated on two bunk beds across from each other.

“You too, Thomas,” Minho said. The way he said it reminded Thomas of a pouting child. He rolled his eyes.

“Not likely,” he said, taking a seat next to Newt. “What was all that about?”

Minho glared at him. “That was setting boundaries.”

“Boundaries for what?” Newt said. When Minho didn’t respond, Newt sighed and rubbed his face. When he spoke again, his voice was quiet but his tone fierce. Anger and frustration seeped into every word. “Look, I had to pull you off of Julio, so I bloody deserve an explanation better than “setting boundaries,” you shucking slinthead, and if you don’t give me one, I will make you.”

Thomas hadn’t seen Newt this angry in… well, technically he had never actually seen him this angry. Minho looked surprised, his mouth opening and closing several times before he shook his head.

“Look, Harriet just talked to me because Julio grabbed at one of the girls or something and she wanted me to take care of it. So I did,” he frowned at Newt. “And you’ll ‘make me’? Are you twelve?”

“It worked,” Newt said. There was a hint of red on his cheeks.

“So you slugged him because he groped a girl?” Thomas said, brushing aside his friends' bickering.

"No," Minho said. "I talked to him and told him that we'd have problems if he pulled that klunk again. I punched him because he—"

Minho faltered. He glanced at Newt.

"Point is, I'm trying not to have any problems and it's been shuck tense since we saw Rat Man's ugly face,” Minho said. "So I told Julio whatever he put near one of those girls, he'd lose."

"Well that's not making the situation any more tense at all," Newt said. "Did you at least explain to him why it was wrong?"

"Well yeah," Minho said, giving Newt a perplexed expression. "The girls outnumber us two to one."

"No! It's wrong because you can't shucking do that," Newt said, shaking his head. "You gotta ask a girl before you grab her boobs. That's how girls work."

"Like you understand how girls work," Minho said with a roll of his eyes. “And I never said he grabbed her boob. Were you eavesdropping?”

Thomas shook his head and got up, leaving the other boys to their argument. He slipped out of the room and stood in the doorway for a while, scanning the area. Julio sat alone on a bench, holding a towel to his cut lip. He spotted Teresa sitting with a group of girls and—Thomas felt a dull stab in his gut—Aris.

He spent the rest of the morning staring out the window. He watched the shadows in the forest shrink and grow, but never caught sight of the sun. Frypan served them two filling, if bland, meals, assisted again by the girl who seemed to give Frypan a run for his money in the kitchen. No one spoke of escape, and every mention the Flare or immunity was met with a stony silence until the subject was dropped. A tentative peace had been reached, and Thomas wondered if a part of WICKED's plan was making them complacent.

Thomas was one of the first in bed that night, collapsing on the too hard mattress and falling asleep within minutes. He didn't dream, and it was the most restful sleep he had in weeks, until a blaring siren ripped through the air in the dead of night.


	5. This Delicious Hustle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Our lives are not our own. We are bound to others, past and present, and by each crime and every kindness, we birth our future.” ― David Mitchell, Cloud Atlas

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy New Year! I'm going to Hawaii from the 1st to the 11th or 12th of January, and I am not sure what access I will have to wifi, so this might end up being the last update until then. Enjoy the chapter!

Thomas bolted up in bed, knocking his forehead against the underside of the bunk above him. He pressed his hands to his ears. A siren wailed through the room, coming from everywhere at once, and the sound was so unbelievably loud that he thought his ear drums were about to pop.

He saw Newt sit up in the bunk next to his and watched as Minho jumped down from the top. Each of them had their own hands clasped over their ears.

Thomas couldn't hear anything outside of the earsplitting alarm, but he saw Minho's mouth form words in the dim light of the bedroom. _What the shuck?_

Thomas shook his head and got out of bed. He grabbed his sneakers, wincing when he had to pull his hands away from his ears. He noticed the other Gladers following his example, grabbing jackets as well. Minho nudged him and glanced at the closed dormitory door. Thomas nodded and they approached.

As he watched Minho crack open the door and peek out, Teresa’s voice sounded in his head. It was crisp and clear, the telepathic connection unhindered by the blaring alarm.

_Thomas! Are you OK? Is everyone OK?_

_We’re fine_ , he said. Minho pushed the door open further and Thomas followed him out. The room was as they left it, lit by the moonlight and some dim recessed lighting in the ceiling. _The girls all OK?_

 _A little deaf, but OK_ , Teresa said, and as she spoke Thomas saw one of the girls peeking out of their dorm. When she saw Thomas and Minho, she stepped out. It was Harriet, and she waved to some other girls before covering her ears again.

She approached them, followed by Sonya, Teresa, and a few other girls. They had the same idea as the boys—shoes and jackets, just in case this alarm meant a chance at an escape. Harriet said something, but he couldn’t hear it or read her lips. Minho shook his head, but Thomas didn’t know if that was an answer to whatever she said or a sign that he didn’t understand either.

Eventually, Harriet leaned close to Minho and yelled whatever she was trying to say in his ear. They carried on like that for a few minutes, as more and more girls and boys gathered in the common room. Minho turned to Thomas and said a single word: Door.

As Minho and Harriet started walking toward the door that they had all entered through two days ago, Thomas and several others tried to follow. Harriet shook her head at them and motioned between herself and Minho, then motioned for them to stay.

Just the two of them.

Thomas watched them go with a sick apprehension twisting in his gut. The door was only forty, maybe fifty feet away, but at that distance, in the dim light and with no useful sound, anything could happen.

 _I don’t like this_ , Teresa said. _Not one bit, Tom. This isn’t good._

Thomas had to agree with her, but he wasn’t sure if they were agreeing for the same reasons. Teresa’s behavior reminded him too much of her support for WICKED in his simulation. But even then, that Teresa had turned against WICKED in the end.

 _Nothing’s ever good with WICKED_ , was Thomas’s only response and Teresa didn’t reply.

Harriet and Minho were at the door now, leaning close again so they could hear each other. After another minute, Harriet stood with her back flat against the wall nearest the door while Minho grabbed the handle.

The alarm stopped at the exact same moment Minho pushed the door open.

Everything was silent, but Thomas’s ears buzzed with the residual effects of the loud siren.

“I sure hope that was some freaky coincidence,” Frypan said.

With his words, the tension of the room broke and they all surged forward toward the door. Minho and Harriet were standing at the threshold. The corridor outside was barren, bathed in flashing red light that emitted from recessed bulbs every ten feet along the ceiling.

“Think whatever locks our wrists together still works?” Newt said. He almost had to yell to be heard, everyone's ears still recovering from the alarm.

“Only one way to find out,” Thomas said, and looked to the others before taking a step through the door.

His hands remained at his sides. Soon, the rest of the teenagers were pouring out, and debate about what to do was bubbling to the surface.

“This remind you of anything?” Minho asked him.

“Yeah,” Thomas said. He had to push aside the experience of his last two escapes from a WICKED headquarters. As far as he knew, no one but him had experienced that. “Except this time it doesn't look like we're locked in.”

“No dead bodies, either,” Newt said.

Minho held his fingers to his mouth and whistled. The rabble died down and everyone's eyes locked on him.

"Alright, so we don't know what's out there or why this alarm went off, but we'll be shucked if we don't use it to our advantage," he said, and Thomas was glad that he never paid much mind to those signs back in the city. Minho may not have always been the most levelheaded guy, but he had a way of getting people to pay attention to him. "I want those sacks of food grabbed, and whatever we put back packed up again. Four minutes, not a second longer."

The crowd hesitated. Maybe they were scared of stepping back into the room or afraid of what they would find, but after a few seconds they jumped into action. Within minutes, everyone had a pillow case or sheet filled with food, and filed into the corridor tying blankets around themselves.

"We head back upstairs," Minho said, the strobing red light casting shadows under his eyes. "Sonya saw windows, and it ain't much, but it's a chance. Eyes peeled, 'cause we ain't falling into another WICKED trap. You shanks got it?"

There were nods and murmurs of agreement.

"Good that," Minho said and turned to lead the way.

They started the trek at a jog, but even then it felt slow, a constant air of high strung tension surrounding the group. The corridor seemed the same as when Thomas was led down it, a long hallway with nothing but a never ending series of closed, blank doors.

They didn't stop to check the rooms. As they reached the far end of the corridor, where a staircase led up, Minho held up a hand to stop them. He waved Thomas forward and nodded to the staircase, motioning for the others to stay put.

They crept up slowly, hugging the wall and peering around corners as the stairwell twisted. Thomas hadn't registered it on his way down, but the stairwell went on for two, maybe three stories. If that was the case, those windows Sonya had seen would mean quite a jump.

They reached the top and found themselves in a little hallway that jutted off from the main corridor. They kept close to the wall as they approached the intersection, and Minho stopped him as they reached the corner. The Runner peered around and ducked back fast.

He glanced at Thomas and there was no mistaking the alarm in his eyes. Minho looked around the corner again, this time for longer. Eventually, he stepped out and motioned for Thomas.

The corridor was a tomb.

Corpses, clothed in scrubs or lab coats or guard uniforms lay along the corridor in pools of blood so thick they looked black, even with the flashing light. A metallic scent clung to the air.

Doors stood ajar, and Thomas could see rooms similar to the one he had woken up in a few days ago, each with an identification label affixed to the door. Minho stepped forward, a small knife clasped in his hand. It was from the kitchen, one of the two that had been supplied. It was small and Frypan claimed they were almost useless for cooking, but Minho had made sure to take them. Newt, waiting down with the others, had the second.

Thomas followed Minho closely and they crouched down the corridor to the nearest body. It was a woman, one of those dressed in blue scrubs who handled the simulation devices. Her light hair was darkened with blood and her eyes were open, glassy. Five bullet wounds formed a curving arc over her chest. Minho pressed two fingers to her throat. He shook his head, then ran a finger through the pool of blood around her body.

“Still warm,” he whispered and wiped his finger off on the woman’s scrubs.

Thomas looked around. Most of the bodies were in a similar state, slumped on the floor and against walls, eyes open and vacant. There was no movement in the hallway, but in the distance Thomas thought he could see a shimmer, the red flashing lights reflecting off of something. The windows, their escape plan. 

Minho stood up.

“We need to get back. Before they come looking for us and stumble into all,” he flailed his hands around and scrunched up his face. “This.”

Thomas nodded and they headed back to the stairwell, casting glances up the hallway every few steps. They descended quietly, their feet making the barest shuffle against the concrete stairs. At the bottom, the Gladers stood in a loose circle, people keeping an eye out in every direction. 

“Clear?” Harriet said.

Minho eyed the crowd.

“We didn’t see anyone alive,” he said. “But it’s a shuck bloodbath. Ten, twelve bodies just near the stairs, and more further on.”

There were a few gasps, a few curses, and a couple of the girls put hands over their mouths.

“I saw the windows,” Thomas said. “Or I think I did. There’s something reflecting the lights up there. It’s possible whoever did this is gone by now, or that we can slip by and get out.”

“Can we risk it?” a voice said from the back.

“Can we bloody risk not doing it?” Newt said.

“We have to go,” Harriet said. “This could be our only chance. If we stay, we’re either keeping ourselves in WICKED’s clutches or we’re giving ourselves over to whoever just killed a bunch of people.”

“They could help us. They obviously don’t like WICKED either,” a small, mousy looking girl said.

“Or they could kill us,” Minho said. “No, we’re better off getting out of here on our own.”

Almost everyone nodded in agreement.

“Everyone line up in twos. Newt, Harriet, I want you covering our tails. Thomas, we’ll lead.”

It only took a few seconds to get everyone lined up. No one spoke, but the march up was significantly louder than when it was just Thomas and Minho. When they reached the hallway, Thomas heard more gasps. He supposed that death was something that most people never got used to, and wondered at what point he did. After the Glade, seeing people fall in the battle against the Grievers, after their trek across the Scorch and seeing Jeff blown to bits and the Cranks and the simulation where he killed people with his own hands… Thomas hated to think that he had grown used to seeing death.

They made their way down the hall, cautiously stepping over bodies and blood pools and peering into the open medical rooms. When they reached a guard, Minho squatted down and checked the man’s belt.

“No gun,” he said, and continued on. He did this for each of the guards, and each one had been stripped of weapons.

As they drew closer, the windows became more apparent. They were nothing but dark squares that occasionally reflected the strobing light, but they were there. Minho crouched beside another guard, this one a woman. He stood up holding a pistol and looking triumphant. He passed the knife that he had been brandishing to Thomas.

He almost dropped it when a low moan filled the hallway. Everyone froze. 

It came again, a pained groan, and this time Thomas was sure it was coming from a room to their left, where the door stood ajar and held a plate.

A12.

The third moan came quiet, but the sheer silence of the hallway made it seem loud. A sob came next and Thomas stepped toward the room, knife tight in his fist.

“Thomas!” Minho hissed, but Thomas didn’t listen. He could hear more sounds now, clicks of metal against metal and muffled sobs.

He tried to remember his dream, the memory of Teresa and him discussing A12. It was something about a breakthrough, but for what?

He walked closer and felt his shoes stick to a congealing pool of blood, peeling away with a wet, sticky sound. He neared the door and peered around the corner.

On the floor, a woman sat propped up against a cabinet. She cradled her blood soaked stomach, and to her side was a tray of medical equipment, forceps and other things Thomas didn’t know the names of.

He must have made a sound, because her head snapped up to look at him. She grabbed a pair of scissors and brandished them at him, trying to back away but stopping with a yelp of pain at the movement.

“Hey, no, I’m not going to hurt you,” he said, and held his hands up. He saw the glint of the knife and quickly pocketed it before holding his hands up again. She didn’t lower her weapon. “Who did this?”

Her hands trembled and her breath came in rugged gasps. There were wads of bloody paper towels around her. It looked like she was trying to perform surgery on herself.

“Zealots,” she said.

“What do you mean?” Thomas said. He could see Minho approaching from the hallway, but he waved him back. His friend reluctantly stopped.

“Don’t… don’t want a cure,” she said, lowing her scissors and dropping them onto the tray with a clang. “Think it’s the end times, God’s plan.”

She barked out a laugh, the hysterical kind people only gave when there was no hope left. Thomas took another step closer, cautious, in case she grabbed the scissors again. He knelt at her side and she did nothing to stop him, only cradled her stomach tighter as her laughter turned into sobbing. Thomas saw a nameplate on her chest: Nasrin.

“Can I see, Nasrin?” he asked. She shook her head.

“No fixing it,” she mumbled, and looked him in the eye for the first time. “I tried… couldn’t reach the cabinet. Hurt too much. Please bring me the bottle, up there.”

Her eyes went to a high cabinet on the other side of the room. Thomas glanced at her and then rose and went to the cabinet. In a little row were a bunch of identical glass vials, the kind you used a needle to draw from. He saw a basket of syringes on the lower shelf and grabbed one. He returned to the woman’s side.

“I need you to… draw back the syringe. The whole vial,” she said, then looked into his eyes. “Please. Know you hate me, but please.”

She was wrong. Thomas didn’t hate her. He hated WICKED, but this woman… Brenda had been a medical tech, in his simulation. But that was created by WICKED, so was the whole thing just conceived to serve some purpose, to manipulate him?

He unwrapped the syringe and stuck it into the bottle, drew back the plunger until the thing was filled with the clear solution.

“Thank you," she said, holding out her hand.

Thomas held the syringe out of reach. He didn’t hate her, but he needed to know. Everyone else in this place was dead.

“First,” he said. “You need to tell me who A12 is.”

Nasrin let out a sob, but Thomas wouldn’t be deterred.

“Don’t know,” she said. “Only know the subject name, the changed patterns.”

“Changed patterns how? For what?”

She shook her head and let out another low moan. Her skin, which looked like it was once lush and brown, was gray, sickly. She had lost too much blood, and Thomas was no fool. This shot she wanted was suicide. But it was also mercy, an escape from the pain.

He wanted to help her, but not before he had some answers.

“Can’t… the records. By the test labs where they… they took the infected you brought,” she said, and sobbed again. “Please, it hurts!”

The infected…

“Brenda and Jorge,” he said. “Where are the labs?”

“The lobby… to the right, there are signs,” she said. “Please…”

Thomas handed her the needle, watched her stick it into her arm as he rose. He didn’t stay long enough to watch her push in the plunger, stepped out into the hallway where the others were waiting, tense and frightened.

No more moans or sobs came from the room.

“What happened, Tommy?” Newt said. Minho was at his side, the gun in one hand.

“I need to find out,” Thomas began, paused, not wanting to explain his dream. “Find out if they were keeping Brenda and Jorge here. She said they were in some kinda lab.”

“Thomas…” Minho said. “We can’t just—”

“I’m not leaving them,” he said. “Not after everything they did. We wouldn’t have made it through the city without them. You know that.”

Minho glanced at Newt, who shrugged.

“He’s right. Crank or no, we owe them.”

Minho pressed his lips into a thin line. “We have thirty other people to worry about,” he said. “We can’t go dragging them around this place when there might still be a threat. We need to leave.”

“So leave,” Thomas said. “But I’m going to find them, even if it means doing it alone.”

Minho glared at him, nostrils flaring.

“Shuck, you’re not doing it alone,” he said. “We’ll send ‘em all ahead. Harriet can handle it.”

They returned to formation and made their way to the windows, always watchful and vigilant. But as many people as they passed, no more were alive.

The corridor terminated in what must have been the lobby the woman spoke about. There was a desk, the receptionist slumped over a computer station, and a bunch of chairs and couches in a large waiting area.

The windows, large floor to ceiling ones, faced a road, and in the distance Thomas could see more snow covered forest. It was still the dead of night, and he didn't see any clocks around to give a better guess at the time. Directly in front of the reception desk, a double wide set of automatic doors were wedged open. The cool air of winter filled the room.

He heard sighs of relief from those around him. He glanced at Minho, who looked apprehensive about the fact that they wouldn't be walking out that door with the others.

As people began to drift out the doors, Minho waved Harriet over. Thomas heard him explain their plan, but didn't pay attention. He wandered toward another hallway jutting from the lobby. At the mouth was a large sign, with names and room numbers. Some of the names had titles beneath them, but Thomas didn't see any that looked important. Instead, he focused on location they needed: Labs, on the third floor.

Thomas turned back to the others. Most of them were already outside, and Minho and Newt stood with Harriet. He watched her nod a few times and then she turned and headed outside. His friends walked toward him, but before they could make it more than a few steps, a voice stopped them.

"Wait!" Teresa said, running back into the room. Snow dusted her inky hair and her cheeks and nose were turning red. "I'm coming with you."

Thomas froze. He waited for Teresa to say something to him telepathically, but she didn't, only looked at him. They all did, Newt curious and Minho like he was about to blow a gasket.

Thomas didn't have the time or patience for this.

"Fine, whatever," he said, and started down the hallway.

"You've got to be kidding me," Minho groaned, but they all followed him nonetheless.


	6. We're Grade A Opportunists

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “those who escape hell, however,  
> never talk about it  
> & nothing much bothers them after that.”
> 
> ― Charles Bukowski

This part of the building was a better kept. The walls were white painted plaster, and the floors were tiled.

At the moment, much of that was smeared with blood. Only a few bodies lay in this part of the building, but they were killed the same way: multiple gunshot wounds.

They dashed through hallways and up a stairwell to the third floor. On the way, Minho grabbed two large knives from a guard's body, handing one to Newt and another, reluctantly, to Teresa. As they went deeper into the complex, fewer and fewer bodies littered the floor.

Thomas skidded to a halt outside of a door labeled "Labs." He took a few minutes to catch his breath and then reached for the handle.

It wouldn't budge. The handle turned, but the door wouldn't open. He tried it again, shook it, and then rammed into the door with his shoulder. It shook, but it didn't give. Thomas tried again, but it felt like he was doing more damage to himself than to the door.

"Let me try," Minho said. Thomas back away and Minho kicked the door, near the handle, but it still didn't budge, even after repeated hits.

They slumped against the wall opposite the door. Teresa remained standing, pacing in front of the door with crossed arms.

"There's no keypad," she said. "All of the other doors, even our cells... they had those panels that the guards used to open them, remember?"

"And that helps us how?" Minho said. He was sweating and his hair clung to his forehead.

Teresa glared at him. She pointed at round lock above the handle. "That means it's a normal lock," she said. "It also means that whoever killed all these people probably didn't get in there. Since we're looking for Jorge and Brenda, that's a good thing."

"They wouldn't have killed them anyway," Thomas said. "They weren't with WICKED. They didn't kill us, and our door was unlocked. And that doesn't help us get it open."

Teresa rounded on him and started to argue, but Newt cut her off.

"You're missing the point," he said. "If they didn't get in, then any shank in there is alive―Brenda or Jorge or bloody WICKED."

Teresa nodded her head and smiled at Newt. "And it does help us get in there," she said. "Because if that's a normal lock, then we can break it. Those key panels, they just make the lock seize up if they're broken."

"So how do we break it?"

Teresa smiled, and turned her gaze to Minho.

"We put that gun you found to use," she said, pointing at the pistol Minho still held. "We're going to shoot it."

"And that will make it open?" Minho asked, looking at the gun in his hand. Teresa nodded. "If it's that easy, why didn't they do it? Why leave the door alone?"

Teresa bit her lip. "Well, they probably didn't do it because they were afraid that the bullet would ricochet off the lock and kill them."

"And you want him to shoot it?" Thomas said. He stood up. "No way, we gotta find something else, a key or a crowbar or something."

"I wouldn't suggest it if I thought it was going to end badly, Tom," she said. Her forehead creased and she looked sad. "WICKED has high tech weaponry, and even if they didn't... how long do you think we have to get that door open? This place got hit at night, when most of the staff was gone. I figure it's three, maybe four in the morning, which means we only have a couple hours before people start showing up for work―and that's assuming that no one on the outside got some alert about the alarm."

Thomas wanted to argue, to insist that whatever they needed might be nearby, but Minho stood up.

"We'll find another way," Minho said. He kept his eyes on Teresa as he spoke. "I don't even know how to tell if this thing is loaded, much less how to fire it, alright? None of us do. We probably couldn't make a shot good enough to ricochet, so let's slim it and find another way."

Teresa looked angry, but she didn't argue.

Minho offered Newt a hand and pulled the tall boy to his feet.

"You and Thomas head that way," he said, pointing toward the unexplored depths of the building. "Miss Ricochet here and me, we'll retrace our steps and look for something."

Thomas didn't much care for splitting up, and it didn't look like Newt did either, but they didn't have much ground to argue on. They needed to find something to open the door, and doing it in two groups would be twice as fast.

He watched Minho and Teresa turn and make their way back, and then he and Newt headed down the corridor. It twisted to the left, and the first door they tried was unlocked. It was dark, but it looked like an office.

They only just entered it when a gun shot rang out behind them.

Newt was faster, turning and bolting back down the corridor. Thomas ran out of the room just in time to see Newt skid around the corner.

"You bloody slinthead," he heard Newt yell. Thomas rounded the corner, grabbing the wall to keep himself upright.

Minho and Teresa were standing in front of the door. Minho's arm dangled loosely as his side, holding the gun. There wasn't anything you'd  expect, like a smoking barrel or whatever other cliches Thomas knew he had seen a thousand times―but never knew where from.

Still, it was clear what just happened. Newt had slowed to a walk, and as he neared the other two, he yanked the gun from Minho's hand, lobbing a string of curses and insults at both Teresa and Minho.

Thomas jogged to catch up.

The deadbolt looked torn and mangled, but it was still intact.

"You are the stupidest bloody shank I have ever had the misfortune to be stuck with," Newt said, poking Minho in the chest with his free hand. He turned to Teresa. "And you, I thought you were smarter than this! He could have died—you could have died—and then we'd be shucked in this shuck place."

While Newt was ranting, Thomas kicked the door, right near the handle like Minho had. It didn't open, but it did make a splintering sound and move inward significantly. Newt stopped his tirade and watched as Thomas kicked the door again. It bowed inward around the handle, and tiny cracks were appearing in the wood.

Two more kicked and it swung open, revealing another hallway, the walls and floors clean. The same red lights flashed, but there were no bodies to be seen.

"You're both still stupid," Newt said, and pushed past Thomas into the lab.

The labs were as confusing as the rest of the building, but this time they didn’t have a handy message board with names and room numbers to guide them. Most of the doors were labeled, but it wasn’t much of a help when they had to duck down hallways and double back just to read the labels and check the rooms themselves.

They didn’t speak, too aware of the fact that someone else might be in the lab with them. But by the fourth off shooting hallway, Thomas was getting impatient. They’d seen ten offices and half a dozen medical examination rooms, but no records. 

“Maybe we should split up,” Thomas said as they merged back into the main corridor. That corridor went on three times again as long as they’d already progressed. “At this rate we’ll never find the records room.”

Teresa stopped and put a hand on his chest. 

“Records room?” she said. “We’re here for Brenda and Jorge, Tom.”

Thomas opened his mouth and stuttered out some sounds that didn’t even vaguely add up to words. Newt and Minho were standing, looking at him curiously.

“Why we need the records room, Tommy?” Newt said.

Thomas licked his lips and wondered how to start.

“Spill it, shank,” Minho said after Thomas had been quiet too long.

“I had another dream, OK?” Thomas said, trying to find the quickest way to explain. “About A12, and that room we passed with the dying woman? A12. I tried to ask her who he was, but she didn’t know. She said I could find records down here, and that’s how I found out about Brenda and Jorge.”

“But why do we need records for A12?” Teresa asked. “What was the dream about, Tom?”

“It was… hazy,” he said. “I couldn’t make half of it out. Less than half, really. But you and I were talking about him. Something about patterns changing, and you… you said it could be a breakthrough.”

Everyone was still. Thomas didn’t like the idea of lying to his friends, even to Teresa, but he did intend to rescue Brenda and Jorge, and who knew if they would have agreed if his reasoning was to grab some papers.

“Tommy,” Newt said, stepping forward. His face was grim. “I've seen the tattoos WICKED gave us—gave everyone in that room. There was no A12. Whoever he was, he died before we got out.”

Newt’s words hit like a punch to the gut, but Thomas shook his head.

“It doesn’t matter. WICKED has all our information—we got nothing, no memories, no idea about who we were before, not even our real names. This might be the only chance we have to find out.”

“Who says we want to know?” Minho said, his jaw clenched. “I don’t give a klunk who I was before.”

“Thomas is right,” Teresa said. He wasn’t sure if she was saying it because she agreed with him or because it meant disagreeing with Minho. “We don’t have to spend a lot of time—just grab them and go get the others.”

Minho looked at Newt for support, but the blond boy shook his head.

“It can’t hurt to know,” he said.

Thomas could tell Minho was angry, but a three against one vote didn’t leave him a lot of options.

“Fine,” he spat.

“But we ain’t splitting up,” Newt said, and glared at Minho.

They searched two more halls before they found a room labeled “Physical Records.”

The room was small, tidy, and the far wall was covered with tall filing cabinets. Teresa entered first, running her hand along the steel drawers, examining the labels. She patted one with the palm of her hand.

“Group A,” she said, and pulled it open. Thomas and Newt came up behind her. Inside, dozens of manila folders. Each one was labeled with the same designation that they had tattooed on their necks. A number. 

All they were to WICKED was a number.

Teresa began handing out files. She shoved a folder labeled A2 into Thomas’s hands, and passed A5 to Newt. 

Thomas thumbed open his file. There was a picture of him, obviously from before the glade. His hair was shorter, and he probably looked a hell of lot better rested than he did these days. The picture was clipped to a single sheet of paper.

No name. No information on his life before. It gave his number, the name WICKED gave him, his status: Immune, and the date which they put him into the Box. It also had some brief physical stats, height and weight and blood type. Under that, a short paragraph listed some of his—or what WICKED thought were his—traits. Steadfast. Dedicated. Fearless.

What a load of klunk.

“Dedicated to order, leader, sociable, caregiver,” Newt muttered at Thomas’s side. “Incident in July was a—”

“Will you hurry it up?” Minho hissed from the door, where he was keeping an eye on the hallway. 

“Relax, A7,” Teresa said, pulling Minho’s folder from the drawer and turning to hand it to him. When he didn’t take it, she shrugged and opened it herself.

“Hey, knock it off!” Minho said, and tried to grab it from her without leaving the doorway.

“Relax,” she said. “It doesn’t say anything we didn’t already know anyway. A7. Minho. Original Resident. Status, contr—”

Teresa frowned. Her lips moved silently as she read. A look of surprise crossed her face, before shifting to one of horror.

“What?” Minho said, irritation still permeating his every word. “Look, I can explain if it’s about the—”

“That’s not what mine says,” Newt said, looking over Teresa’s shoulder at the paper. He frowned as he read on. He glanced at Minho.

“What?” Thomas asked. He watched Minho leave the doorway and tear the folder out of Teresa’s hands. She didn’t stop him. He read through the paper, and Thomas watched as the irritation was replaced with stony indifference. Minho’s eyes flicked to him.

“A prime physical specimen, A7’s lack of immunity is regrettable,” Minho said. He dropped the folder on the floor. “Ain’t that shucked?”


	7. Relevant Subjects

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “In life, unlike chess, the game continues after checkmate.” ― Isaac Asimov

Minho turned his back on them and reclaimed his post at the door. “Get your folders and let’s go, alright?”

“Minho…” Teresa said. Thomas couldn’t miss the way the corners of her pretty pink lips turned down. She didn’t get along with Minho, but she still looked like she was about to cry.

“Just get the shuck folders so we can get the shuck out of here!”

They were quiet for a moment.

“Good that,” Newt mumbled, and moved to the cabinet. He grabbed some folders and passed them to Teresa, then spent a few seconds pulling others out and peeking at them, replacing some and handing two more to Teresa.

“For the others,” he said when Thomas asked. Thomas didn’t comment on how there were more folders than Gladers left.

He glanced at Minho, but looked away quickly. It was all happening again. One of his friends wasn’t immune—was probably infected. Thomas made a silent promise to himself, swearing that the same thing wouldn’t happen. He would find a way to keep Minho from the same fate as Newt.

They left the room, Minho in front and the others trailing behind, Teresa with a stack of folders tucked under her arm. The silence that hung over them now was heavier than before, plagued with a different sort of dread and apprehension.

The quiet didn’t last for long. As they passed the mouth of an off shooting hallway, Minho was knocked to the side by a blur of motion. He crashed to the floor of the opposite hallway, and Thomas saw the weapon—a bright red fire extinguisher—and then the assailant. He was an older man, short and pudgy, his hair speckled with gray. He wore a lab coat, an ID badge pinned to his chest.

The man hesitated, looking winded from his attack. He hefted the fire extinguisher again.

"Stop!"

The man jerked to a halt and looked at them, his eyes widening behind a pair of wire frame glasses. Thomas didn't know if that was because he didn't expect three more people or because of the gun Newt had pointed at his chest.

He dropped the fire extinguisher with a loud clang and his hands shot into the air. He looked around, from the gun to Newt to Thomas to Teresa to Minho, who was groaning and picking himself off the floor.

"You're the subjects," he said, stuttering through the handful of words. "But you... this wasn't you, was it?"

"We ain't bloody subjects," Newt said. Thomas saw the almost imperceptible tremor of his hand as he pointed the gun. The last time Thomas had seen Newt hold a gun to anyone, it ended with a bullet in his own brain, courtesy of Thomas.

"If you mean the alarm," Teresa said, sounding calmer than Newt. "We didn't set it off."

The man looked around, confused. "If it wasn't you, then—"

"It doesn't matter who it was," Minho said, rising to his feet. He was holding the right side of his chest, where the impact of the hit had landed. "Just be glad you were locked in here."

Thomas didn't give the man time to inquire further.

"We're looking for the two you brought in when we were picked up in the Scorch," Thomas said. "Someone said they were being kept here."

The man glanced from Thomas to the gun. It looked like the fear was setting in. This man wasn't a soldier, probably wasn't even a very important person to WICKED if he was working the overnight shift.

"We aren't going to hurt you," Thomas said. "Not if you don't give us a reason. All we want is to get our friends and go."

"Go?" he said. "But... we're so close to a cure. If you go then we—"

"We're leavin'," Newt said. "We've had it up to here with WICKED and this bloody farce. Do you know where the two shanks we came with are or not?"

The man paused again, assessing the situation, then nodded.

"Follow... follow me."

At least it was obvious when they found Brenda and Jorge. The room they were kept in was in the back of the lab, but unlike the others, windows gave them full view of the room. Brenda was seated on a bed, Jorge pacing. Both were dressed in simple, white cotton pants and shirts, with slippers. Minho tapped on the glass as they approached, and Thomas saw their faces light up in surprise.

"The door," Newt said, motioning to the old man. He scanned his ID and the door clicked and slid open.

Brenda bolted out first, running straight to Thomas and wrapping her arms around him in a hug.

"I'm so glad to see you!" she said, stepping back and beaming at the others.

Jorge was more cautious to step out, giving the old man a glare as he made wide berth around him. He pointed up at the strobing lights.

"This you?"

"No," Thomas said with a shake of his head. "We're just taking advantage."

The reunion was short lived. Newt pointed with his gun at the man and gestured toward the room Brenda and Jorge had just exited.

"In," he said. "Tommy, take his badge."

Thomas did as he was instructed, the man handing it over without protest. The old man stepped into the room.

"Don't believe what they say on the outside," he said as Thomas went to close the door. "WICKED is good."

* * *

The sky was just starting to lighten up by the time they returned to the lobby. The stars were fading, the barest edge of sunrise on the horizon. Brenda and Jorge wore pilfered lab coats, a futile effort to give them something warmer. They had taken shoes from two bodies they passed, Jorge a pair of heavy combat boots and Brenda a pair of white sneakers, the toe on the right smeared red.

It was snowing, and the tracks of the others were all but gone in the deep snow drifts.

"We're meeting north," Minho said. "First safe place they can find."

"And if there is no safe place?" Jorge asked.

"We keep heading north."

They all paused at the mouth of the doorway, the cold wind whipping through the broken glass. At his side, Brenda shivered, and Thomas had to fight back the urge to wrap an arm around her shoulders. They weren't like that, not here. Whatever he had with her, whatever bond they formed in his simulation… it wasn't real for her.

And here she wasn't immune. Thomas knew what that meant.

Minho led the way outside. The snow was deep, up to Thomas's knee in most places, and it was coming down fast. Thomas suspected the only reason they could still see the tracks of the others was because more than twenty five of them had marched out together.

It was less deep under the cover of trees and Thomas could feel the crackle of twigs and pine needles under his feet. Wind whistled through the branches and made the chill air seem even colder.

They couldn't run here. The snow was too deep and it covered everything. Thomas almost tripped twice, and he helped Brenda up after she fell to her knees, her foot snagged on a root. It was getting lighter, the dark blue sky visible through the treetops. Not much fresh snow reached them, but everyone was forced to brush flakes from their hair and shoulders every so often.

Thomas's lungs burned more than they ever had in the Maze or even in the Scorch. It was a different sort of burn, one that made him feel like his chest would seize up and just stop all at once. As they moved further north, the tracks of the others slowly disappeared until the only evidence was a vague depression in a line. Before long, even that was gone.

They came to a clearing and Minho called them to a stop. Thomas wanted to sit, catch his breath, but there was nothing around them but snow. He settled for bending over, bracing his arms against his knees. The sun had risen enough that he could see a golden glow through the pines.

Something bright green and round landed between his feet. An apple. Thomas looked up. Minho was rifling through his pack and tossing apples to everyone. When he finished, he took one himself and bit down. The sound was crisp, loud in the quiet forest.

Thomas picked the apple up and dug in. It was sour, but juicy, a welcome taste after the escape and long walk. He ate every bite he could, spitting the seeds into the snow.

"Think they've followed us?" Brenda said. She was red faced, her lips cracking in the cold.

"Maybe," Thomas said. "Probably."

"After that?" Brenda said. She didn't look convinced, and Thomas didn't blame her. "All those people... don't they have better things to worry about than some escaped kids?"

"WICKED doesn't care about them," Minho said, readjusting his pack. "We're their cure.”

Minho paused for a moment. He stared at the snow, but, from the glazed look in his eyes, he wasn’t really seeing it.

“Well, some of us are,” he muttered, his voice almost lost on the wind.

Brenda glanced at Thomas as they started walking north again. It was good to be back in her company. Even if they weren't as close as they had been—as Thomas had felt they had been—she was his friend. That wouldn't change.

By midday, they'd stopped once more for food—bread and peanut butter that they spread on with the kitchen knives—and shortly after found a stream where they drank their fill. It was freezing, but the water was the most welcome sight Thomas ever saw. Their trek was taking them downhill. It was slow, but the land began to grow more lush and less snowy.

Nobody talked much, though he saw Newt and Jorge walk together and have some long conversation in hushed tones. Once, he dropped back and walked next to Teresa for a while, asking her if the folders were safe. She thrust a thumb over her shoulder to the makeshift pack, but didn't say much.

Exhaustion was setting in. Their sleep that night had been cut painfully short, and it had been nothing but a marathon of action since then. As the orange glow of sunset took over the sky, Minho called them to a halt. He pointed to a large cluster of pine trees. Under their boughs, the ground looked dry.

"Ain't much point in going through here in the dark," he said. "Anybody know how to start a fire?"

"I've started one or two in my day," Jorge said.

"Good," Minho said with a nod. He dropped his pack under the cluster of pines. "Newt an' me'll help you find wood. The rest of you get some food ready and figure out a way for us to use those blankets tonight."

There wasn't much left for food. Between the two extra people, Thomas figured they had two days at most, if they rationed well. Hopefully they would catch up with the others and find a place to stay. He wondered if they _could_ find a place to stay. How much of the real world had WICKED let him glimpse? Were the cities and towns really so closed off? The thought of Minho or Brenda or Jorge ending up in one of those Crank Palaces made Thomas sick.

By the time he and the girls had the food and blankets sorted out, the others returned with armfuls of wood. They had no axes or saws to gather larger pieces, so it was mostly twigs and thin branches.

"Are we sure we want a fire?" Thomas asked. He didn't know much about wilderness survival—or at least he didn't think he did—but fires made smoke, and that would make them a lot easier to find out here.

Provided WICKED was looking for them.

"Ain't got much of a choice," Newt said. He wrapped his arms around himself. "It's fire or freeze."

Thomas knew he was right, but the idea of making it that much easier for WICKED to find them didn't sit right for Thomas. He had a hard time believing they wouldn't come after them, regardless of what happened back at the facility. WICKED didn't like to lose, and as long as there was a single member dedicated to their cause, they would never let Thomas—or any of them—go.

Jorge kneeled over a pile of sticks. He had stacked them like a hut, their tops leaning together, leaving the inside free for dry needles and bark and smaller twigs.

Teresa handed him a pot. There wasn't as much snow this far out, but Thomas managed to fill it with the freshest he could find. When he was done, the first wisps of smoke were rising from the fire, Jorge blowing gently into the center.

Thomas had to fill the pot up three more times before they were all sated. They didn't have to worry about cooking--nothing in the packs needed it. Dinner was more bread and peanut butter, and long, thin carrots that they washed clean with snow. The sun had set by the time they finished, and thousands of stars blanketed the sky. The air was cooling quickly, and every puff of breath was visible before being lost in the smoke.

"We should have a watch," Minho said. Everyone was starting to look glassy eyed, tired from the full day's march. "'Less we wanna get snuck up on in the middle of the shuck night. I'll take first."

"We should do pairs," Newt said. "Keep each other awake, two sets of eyes."

"Fine," Minho said, though the glare he leveled at Newt said that he'd much rather do it alone. "Jorge an' me, then. We'll wake you and Thomas in a few, girls can take the watch before dawn."

Newt stood up to argue, but Minho turned his back on them and walked away. He brushed a dusting of snow from a nearby rock and sat down, his back to the group. Newt, Thomas, and Teresa shared a look. Brenda and Jorge looked confused, and it occurred to Thomas that they didn't know about Minho. They didn't know about any of them. All they knew was that the cure was a farce, which meant all of them were infected. He didn’t even know if they knew that much.

Thomas shook his head. They'd talk about that later, when they weren't stuck in the middle of a forest.

They laid two of the sheets over the ground, near enough to the fire that they could feel the warmth on their legs. It wasn't a big area, so they laid shoulder to shoulder, Thomas and Newt on the ends, Brenda and Teresa in the middle. They layered the blankets they brought with them over each of them, sharing body heat.

He was next to Brenda, her shoulder pressed to his. A part of him was glad, but another was annoyed that Teresa had very deliberately laid next to Newt. It was only the most recent sign that had been worrying him.

Was it fair of him, to be jealous when he'd already told her that he didn't think he could trust her? If she liked Newt, or if they had found something, was it fair for him to be angry about it? Was it fair to any of them for him to be distracted by his stupid feelings when they were running for their lives?

Thomas drifted to sleep, thoughts of Teresa flashing through his head.

* * *

He didn't dream, and it felt like seconds passed before he was shaken awake by Jorge. He groaned and got up, letting the older man slip in next to Brenda.

Newt was doing the same, Minho passing him the gun before laying down.

Sometime during his sleep, the moon had risen. It was almost full and it cast a white glow, making the snow shine silvery in the night. He and Newt circled around the fire, stepping away from the sleeping area.

Thomas stood there for a while, taking in the night. He didn't hear all the sounds he expected to hear in the forest, but the occasional skitter of some small creature was audible. Eventually, he took a seat on the large rock away from the others. Newt joined him.

"I don't think I've ever been this bloody cold," Newt said, blowing into his hands and rubbing them together. His voice was hushed, barely more than a whisper. "Almost makes me miss the Scorch."

"Or the Glade at least," Thomas said. Sure, it was cold, but he'd take this over the unwavering heat of the Scorch.

"Good that," Newt said. They stay in silence for a while longer, then Newt got to his feet.

Thomas watched him head back to the fire and kneel near their pile of packs. In a few seconds, he returned with the stack of folders.

"Might as well busy ourselves," he said, sitting down and setting the stack on his lap. He flicked the first folder open.

Alby stared back at them, a smile on his face that Thomas was sure he never wore in the Glade. DECEASED had been stamped across the text in large red letters.

"A6," Newt said, squinting to read in the dim light. "Immune. Subject displays capable leadership abilities."

There was more, but Newt didn't read aloud and Thomas couldn't make out the small letters. Newt folded the photograph in half and stuffed it into his pocket before closing the folder and shuffling it to the bottom.

"Teresa's, yours... Frypan," he said, flicking open another. "A10. Oh good, he's immune."

"At least we'll always have our cook," Thomas mused. They worked their way through a few more files, finding the other Gladers immune. There were a few for their fallen comrades, as well, including Jeff, Winston, and Zart. Eventually two were left, one labeled A67 and the other... A12.

Thomas wanted to grab for A12, but Newt flicked open the other.

Chuck's face looked back at them, smiling and chubby cheeked.

"I thought you might want it," Newt said at length. He moved the picture out of the way. The red DECEASED was stamped across Chuck's page just like Alby's.

"What's it say?" Thomas asked. Newt leaned closer to the page.

"Control," he said at length. "Control group."

Thomas slumped. Even if Chuck hadn't been killed, he wasn't immune.

"'A recent acquisition, Subject has received minimal priming. Acquisition was necessary due to," Newt paused and swallowed. "Due to delay in arrival of Subjects A1 and A2. His youth and childish nature may inspire usable patterns among... relevant subjects.'"

Thomas bit his lip, anger and guilt welling up inside him. WICKED was ruthless, taking a kid like Chuck, who they knew had no chance, and sticking him in the Glade, only to turn around and call him _irrelevant_. And all because of some ‘delay,’ one he might have been a part of.

It made him want to take them down even more.

Newt unclipped the photograph from the paper and handed it to Thomas. Thomas took it, folding it carefully and sticking it into his pocket, like Newt had done with Alby's. He watched the blond boy shuffle Chuck's folder to the bottom of the stack,

All that was left was A12. Newt hesitated, his finger between the two sides of the folder.

"Ya know these don't say much, Tommy," he said, looking at Thomas. "An' we told you, there wasn't no A12 with us after the Glade."

"I know," Thomas said. "But... it's gotta give us something. My dream... Teresa and I wouldn't've been talking about it if it wasn't important."

Newt nodded and flipped open the folder.

Gally's face, big nose and ugly sneer and all, looked up from the photograph. Thomas grabbed the folder out of Newt's hands and pushed the photograph aside, eyes scanning the words.

"Control--modified," he said, pointing at the information under the ‘Status’ heading. "Is that what Minho’s and Chuck's said?"

Newt shook his head, frowning as he read further. "No. The just said control, and the rest of us were listed as immune."

Thomas kept reading. _Aggressive, Subject causes considerable strife. Resistant to leadership. Following Griever sting and administration of Serum, Subject's patterns showed considerable shift toward mean goal. Production of ETNA enzyme increased ten fold, surpassing that of some immunes. VES protein baseline unaffected. Status undetermined._

He glanced at Newt, who had finished reading as well.

"What does all that mean?" Thomas said. Newt shook his head.

"Shuck if I know. Sounds like the sting shucked up his bloody brain”  he said, taking the folder and reading through it again. He snorted. “Not that we didn’t know that already.”

"But it talks about patterns shifting closer to the mean," Thomas said. "That's a good thing, isn't it?"

Newt closed the file and returned it to the stack in his lap. His brow was wrinkled in concentration. He glanced at Thomas, and as he spoke, his words were slow and deliberate.

"What exactly was your dream about?" he said. "What did you see, what was said?"

"It was all hazy," Thomas said. "I couldn't make a lot of it out—the words kept fading in and out. But Teresa mentioned something about a sting—the Griever sting, I guess. Then she said.. she said it could be a breakthrough."

"A breakthrough," Newt said. "Or a cure."

"And if they're making a cure," Thomas started, but Newt finished for him.

"Then we have a shot at saving Minho."

For the first time in a while, Thomas felt a smile on his face. He saw the expression mimicked on Newt, and the other boy's eyes lost some of the weight that clouded them.


	8. First Comes Fire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "That night,  
> I saw the trapper's shadow  
> and it had four legs.”  
> ― Linda Hogan

They woke the girls a few hours before dawn, taking their places in the warm cocoon of blankets. Sleep found Thomas as easily as it did before, and he did not dream.

Breakfast was granola bars and more melted snow. By the time the golden hue of sunrise was fading, they were on their way, packs newly rearranged and redistributed. Having made it through the night, everyone seemed in better spirits.

Thomas was pleased and surprised to find that Teresa and Brenda were laughing and joking with each other now, and they walked side by side, sometimes giggling behind their hands. Girls, he decided, were strange people.

Newt was up front with Minho. They had agreed to keep their suspicions to themselves, at least until they learned more. It wouldn't do well to give false hope, and as much as Thomas wanted to believe this was their chance not only to save Minho, but Brenda and Jorge and the rest of the infected, he couldn't shake the feeling that it would amount to nothing. Up ahead, they weren't joking around like the girls were, but he did hear the occasional murmur of conversation. Maybe Newt would make better progress than any of them had yesterday. He had known the other Glader longer than any of them, and Thomas could tell by the ways in which they silently communicated that they understood each other.

That left him with Jorge. The older Hispanic man seemed to be enjoying the scenery. It was a stark contrast to the Scorch, and Thomas wondered if he came from a similar area, before he was taken to that city. Before he was infected.

"Remind you of somewhere?" Thomas asked, saddling up alongside Jorge. He nodded.

"Used to live in upstate New York," he said. "Not a lot of forests, but a nice, green kinda place. Part I hated most about the Scorch. Nothin' living."

They made idle small talk for a while, before the question that had been nagging Thomas in the back of his mind rose to the surface.

"Can I ask you something?" he said, after Jorge finished telling a story about the time he stole a car when he was Thomas's age and ended up spending the night in jail before his father bailed him out. "Something kinda..."

Thomas struggled to find the word, but at his side Jorge nodded.

"Lemme guess," he said. "You want to know about the Flare. How it works, what it feels like."

"How'd you know?" Thomas said. Then it hit him: Jorge still thought Thomas was infected.

"Your buddy Newt asked me the same thing yesterday," Jorge said. "And Minho last night during watch. He also told me that you lot were immune. That WICKED was testing you because of that."

Thomas almost stopped in his tracks. That certainly got an awkward conversation out of the way. In his simulation, Thomas saw how some people felt about immunes—or Munies, as they called them. He glanced at Jorge, wondering if the idea was angering the man. However, he was smiling, ever so slightly.

"You can relax, muchacho," he said. "It's the luck of the draw, yeah?"

Thomas let out a breath he didn't know he'd been holding.

"But I do wonder," Jorge went one. "If you're all immune, why you wanna know what the Flare does? Unless one—or more than one—of you isn’t.”

Thomas wondered how to respond. He trusted Jorge—which may have been a stupid choice, since the man wasn't the same one he spent so much time with. This man wasn’t a Berg pilot. He wasn’t a WICKED defector. This man talked about eating people’s eyeballs. This man wanted to cut off Minho’s fingers and promised them death if there was no cure. Thomas hadn't ever seen him eat any eyeballs and he certainly never cut off Minho's fingers or killed them, but... Thomas knew that trusting him put him at risk.

He also didn't want to say anything because he didn't know if Minho would want him to say anything. He wished they talked about this, but such a thing was off the table.

Jorge pointed to Minho and Newt, who were walking about twenty feet ahead.

"What do you notice?" he said. "Take a look, tell me if anything seems out of place."

Thomas didn't know what the man was asking him to find, but he focused on the pair in front of him. Newt's limp was pronounced, as it always was when they had to walk a lot—or run a little. But he didn't have any trouble navigating through the terrain, which was now flat, if a little rough and cluttered with rocks and tree roots. His blond hair was curled around the nape of his neck, and there was a smudge of dirt on the back of his jacket.

Minho was on Newt's left, arms swinging as he walked. He looked like he was controlling his pace, making himself slower for Newt. His jacket was tied around his waist, and Thomas saw the grip of the pistol sticking out from his waistband.

"You know why they call it the Flare?"

Thomas nodded. "It started right after the solar flares, right?"

"Not just that," Jorge said. "It's the symptoms. One of the first, it makes you feel hot. More than that, it makes you feel like you're on fire. It _burns_."

Jorge nodded toward Minho. "Your buddy Minho there didn't like sitting too close to the fire last night did he?"

"So you know," Thomas said. "I guess I don't have to pretend. So what can you tell me about it? What should we expect?”

"That depends on a lot of things," he said. "The burning's first, and you get real easy to piss off. Some people don't make it past the burning. Fever spikes too high, ya see. After a while, that fades—fever burns itself out and your body stops trying to fight. Then the pain goes. Any pain. That's why you see cranks walkin' round with open wounds or missin' parts."

"They can't feel it?" Thomas asked. He recalled the crank who tried to kill him and Brenda after they were separated from the group. Could he really not feel the flesh missing from his body?

"Sensory nerves get dulled or somethin'," Jorge said. "I ain't up on the science of it. Anyway, after that... people usually go south pretty fast. Some keep their heads for longer. There's no real time line. They don't know much about how it works. God knows how they expect to find a cure."

Thomas took in the information. If Minho was that early, then they had time. At least, they might have time. But what if it was like in his simulation, where stressful situations made the Flare progress faster? Their entire lives were stressful. Of course, that may have been only in the WICKED generated world. But there had been too many accuracies in his simulation to completely discount, and he wondered why WICKED had chosen to feed him anything truthful. What purpose did it serve them?

"Where are you and Brenda?" Thomas said without meaning to. He supposed it was rude to ask, but he didn't see either one of them looking overheated. "I mean... you don't... are—"

Jorge let out a laugh and clasped Thomas on the shoulder.

"Safe to say, neither one of us is that far gone. Made it past the fever. There's a bit of a lull there," he said. "Eye of the storm kinda shit."

Thomas nodded. The last thing they needed was anyone going full out crank on them.

"Does it hurt?"

"Not as much as it did," Jorge said. He nodded toward Minho. "I'm better off than he is right now."

* * *

Evening was closing in when they saw the first signs of civilization since leaving WICKED's facility. Thomas wasn't sure how far they made it—probably no more than fifteen miles through the rough terrain.

Civilization came in the form of a road, cracked and wet with the rain that drizzled. They were lucky, afforded the protection of a canopy of trees and still mostly dry. The road cut through the woods, gently curving as it headed East, its surface a patchwork of black asphalt and ground hugging plants.

They huddled under a tall oak tree, spared the worst of the rain save for the occasional drip from the leaves overhead.

"What if they took it?" Teresa said. Her long, black hair was tucked into the popped collar of her coat and it was frizzy from the humidity.

Newt shook his head. "We told them North until they found a safe place," he said. "They wouldn't change that—not without leaving us a sign."

"What if they did?" Brenda said. She was wearing Minho's jacket, the Runner tossing it to her without a word as they finished their bland and meager lunch. She had protested, but Minho only said that the cold never bothered him anyway and marched on. "We may have started out following their trail, but those woods were thick and we never saw signs of a campfire or anything. They could have come across this road miles away from here."

"So we'll check," Minho said, standing from his crouched position overlooking the road. "But not tonight. It's getting late and I don't want to light a fire where it can be seen easily from the road."

They crossed the road and walked for another twenty minutes, their light steadily fading. They all picked up sticks and twigs and peeled bark from the driest trees on the way, and by the time they found a space with a clear enough area for a fire and a sheltered enough patch of ground to sleep on, they had more than enough wood for the night.

Jorge set to work on the fire while the rest of them prepared dinner and made the bed. It was warmer than last night, and the lack of snow falling was a testament to that. Still, the night would be chilly, and they couldn't allow a resource like body heat to go to waste.

They crowded together, shoulder to shoulder, munching on peanut butter sandwiches. Their only pot was sitting in a patch of ground open to the sky, collecting rain water. Thomas wasn't thirsty anyway—so many streams and brooks crossed their path that day that they were set.

"So which way do we go first tomorrow?" Teresa said, licking the last remnants of peanut butter from her fingers.

"West," Thomas said.

"But the eastern road curves to the north. It would make more sense for them to take that way."

"Exactly. If they came out further west, they would've left something for us to see and then headed Northeast down the road or kept going straight through the woods," he said. "And if they came out further east, they would have done the same."

"Which means?" Minho said. He was still without the jacket, though he didn't seem to be shying away from the fire like last night.

"Which means if we try east and see no sign of them, we head west and see a sign, it would probably tell us to go back east. But if we head west and don't see anything, then whatever we see when we go east will either tell us to go North or keep going down the road," Newt said. "Supposin' they left a bloody sign. What klunk do we expect to find?"

"Anything obvious," Minho said. "We ain't exactly talkin' about the brightest shanks here."

"Weren't we supposed to be geniuses or something?" Newt said. He poked Thomas in the ribs with his bony elbow. "You said so after the Changing."

Thomas shrugged. His memories of before were fuzzy. And he wasn't so sure he could trust them, not after confirming that WICKED could easily simulate entire existences.

"Well," Minho said, standing up. "We got a lot of walking tomorrow, so best be bedding down. We'll do watches like last night an—"

"Oh!" Brenda raised her hand. "Teresa and I'll go first."

"...Good that," Minho said, giving Brenda a curious glance. He pulled the gun out and handed it to Teresa. "Wake me and Jorge up after a couple hours."

* * *

_"We haven't even solidified the role of the VES protein in Flare resistance," Teresa said, her palms flat on the table. They were in a meeting room, the sort with a massive, shiny wooden table and a dozen high backed leather chairs. Most of the chairs were filled with old, graying men and women in business attire. Four, however, were filled with teenagers._

_Teresa was at the head of the table, her hair pulled back into a high ponytail and a stack of notes, charts, and graphs in front of her. She was standing, her seat forgotten in her passionate plea. Across from Thomas sat Aris and the girl Thomas assumed was Rachel._

_"It could be a simple correlation," Teresa went on. "We need to pull him out to do further tests. This could be our breakthrough and you’ve been ignoring it for months.”_

_"It's too risky," an older man said. He had a full head of hair, but every strand was pure white. His suit was dark blue, and the tie was too short for him. "He's not a Runner—there's no way we can take him without upsetting the entire program."_

_"But we know that this caused a change in his patterns," Aris said. "The Griever venom definitely caused a spike in ETNA production."_

_"The MD venom," an older woman said, her hair obviously dyed a bright, unnatural red. "Or the serum or a combination of the two. It’s impossible to tell when the process began without closer evaluation.”_

_"What do you suggest we do?" Rachel said, her voice sharp and harsh. "Ignore the only lead we have?"_

_"Of course not," said the old man. Whoever he was, he seemed to be in charge. "We need further testing."_

_The room grew quiet. Teresa retook her seat and shuffled some papers around._

_"What do you propose?" she said, looking up and meeting the man's eyes. "Because this should be considered and addressed before we drop in. Why make an unnecessary sacrifice?"_

_"What sort of changes did you see with the recent incident?" the man asked, disregarding Teresa's question completely._

_"Same thing," Teresa answered, pulling out one of the many papers from the stack. She barely glanced at it, and Thomas knew that she had read the information enough times that it was committed to memory. "A spike in ETNA production and the VES baseline remained the same. But he was immune, and it only happened yesterday."_

_"One of the Runners from your group is a member of control, yes?"_

_Teresa paused, her eyes guarded._

_"Yes," she said slowly. She looked hesitant to give anything more, and the man's gaze flicked from her to Thomas._

_"A7's control," Thomas said, leaning forward in his chair. He heard Teresa sigh, but he wasn't sure if it was out loud or just in his head. "We could modify an MD's programming to seek him out."_

_The man shook his head. "He'll run. It's what he's been doing for years. No, we need to set a trap, and deeper in the Maze. We'll spring it, have a technician closely monitor his patterns after the sting and then after the serum."_

_"That doesn't answer the question of if this is even a cure," Teresa said. "We move almost immediately on to Phase Two following completion. The chips only give us so much, and they might not even detect early stage Flare at all."_

_"We'll pull A12 during shutdown," the old man said. Thomas thought for a moment that he should find some unflattering nickname for him, like they did for Rat Man. "It won't be hard with this whole 'changing' business they've built up. Kids don’t even realize it’s just interference."_

_Teresa looked like she wanted to argue, but the old man stood up and held up a hand to silence her. Others around the table starting standing up, too._

_"We'll address it after completion," he said. "We can't delay the shutdown any longer. Phase One has gone on long enough and it's time to move on."_

* * *

Thomas jerked awake to the sound of crackling wood. The sky was starting to lighten, but most of the light to see by came from the fire. Thomas sat up. Minho knelt by the fire, poking it with a stick to get the newly added wood to catch.

Thomas looked to his side—to the four others sharing the makeshift bed. He got up, stumbled over to the fire while rubbing his eyes.

"Shouldn’t—shouldn't Newt and me be on watch?" he said with a yawn.

"Wasn't tired," Minho said, keeping his voice quiet. "Figured I'd let you guys sleep."

Thomas shook his head. He had enough of this.

"You slinthead," he said and Minho look up at him in surprise before sneering.

"See if I ever let you sleep in again," he said. His voice was still quiet but now it was spoken through clenched teeth. Thomas knew he would be easy to anger, knew he should step carefully.

He just didn't care.

"You can't keep running from this," he said. A part of him hoped the words didn't come out to harsh, but another part of them hoped they did. "Pretending it doesn't exist."

Minho jumped to his feet, his fists clenched at his sides. Only the fire separated them now, its flames making shadows dance across Minho's form. Thomas braced himself for an attack.

It never came. Minho stood his ground, fists shaking, but he didn't jump at Thomas.

"I'm not runnin' from it," he said. "But pitying myself ain't gonna get shuck all done and I don't need you shanks being all sorry for me, either."

"You could at least act like you care," Thomas spat. He didn't know why he cared so much. Minho could figure out how to handle things on his own, decide how he wanted to deal with it. But there was something about the way Minho was ignoring the reality of it that grated on him.

"And do what? Cry?" Minho said. Then he shook his head and let out a cruel laugh. "Isn't that more your style?"

Thomas felt his face go hot and knew it had nothing to do with the fire. He bit down on his tongue. He wouldn't throw the first punch. He would push and prod, but he wasn't going to give Minho a real excuse.

Partly because the former Keeper was his friend and partly because he knew he wouldn't win in a fight. He'd seen Minho whale on too many people to think he had a chance.

"You boys alright?"

Thomas wheeled around. Brenda was sitting up on the blankets, her arms wrapped around her knees. Her eyebrows were raised, disappearing behind her bangs. He glanced back at Minho. The boy had returned to his seat, a large log that they had dragged over to the fire. He didn't look angry anymore, but he wouldn't look at Thomas or at Brenda.

"We're fine," Thomas said, shrugging and backing away from the fire. "Just discussing where we should stop for breakfast."

Brenda gave a shaky sounding laugh, but it was obvious she knew things weren't alright. She knew not to push the subject, though, and in a few minutes, as dawn started to break beyond the trees, everyone was up and about. They ate the last of their granola bars. All that was left was half a loaf of bread, and then they were shucked.

They stopped at a stream on their way back to the road, each drinking their fill and washing up as much as they dared in the frigid water. As they approached the road, Minho veered them to the west, close enough that they could keep track of the road, but deep enough into the forest that they wouldn't be easily spotted.

"We'd have an easier time on the bloody road," Newt grumbled as they hiked through a stream. His limp was growing more pronounced by the day, and Thomas saw him rubbing at the ankle whenever they stopped.

"Be my guest," Minho said. "But I think I'll--"

He stopped dead, Newt stumbling to avoid colliding into his back. Minho held up a hand and shushed everyone when questions began to pop up.

The air was filled with nothing but the chirping of birds and the faint breeze combing through the trees. Then, Thomas heard it, a rustle of bushes and snapping of twigs to their right.

Minho's hand went to the gun in his waistband. Thomas readied his knife and saw the others do the same. More sounds came from behind them and he turned. It was still too dark under the canopy to see much, and the trees, even this close to the road, were dense. Underbrush, stubby saplings, and scrub oak made anything on ground level even harder to see.

But they could hear just fine, and the growls that sounded around them told them that this wasn't WICKED.

"The road," Minho said, his voice quiet. Thomas was impressed that it didn't waver in the slightest. "Back up toward the road."

They did as he said, slowly shuffling backwards, feeling with their feet so as not to trip and make the whole situation worse. They made it a slow, anxious six or seven feet when something emerged from the brush in front of them.

It was a wolf, its yellow eyes shining in the pale daylight. It must have been four feet at the shoulder, and, somehow, Thomas knew that wolves weren't supposed to be that big. It growled and barred its teeth at them, but it didn't get any closer. Minho raised his gun.

"Keep going," he muttered under his breath, but the sound was almost drowned out in the wolf's growls.

Then everything went to klunk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did you spot the Frozen reference?


	9. Bloody Tenure

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I don't want to die without any scars.” ― Chuck Palahniuk, Fight Club

With their eyes locked on the hulking beast before them, they took a step back. Something came running at them from the side and jumped straight at Minho's upraised arm. The gun went off, there was a howl, and Minho screamed as the second wolf—smaller by at least half—grabbed his arm in its jaws and yanked him to the ground.

Thomas took his eyes off the giant wolf long enough to see Minho on the ground with the smaller one. He saw bright blood as the canine shook Minho's arm in its mouth, growling and snarling while Minho yelped. Newt jumped into the fray, but he had ended up with one of the tiny kitchen knives. Thomas didn't see what good that would do to the animal unless he got it in the right place.

When he glanced back, to the place where the larger wolf had stood, it was gone. He shook the thought of it from his head—better to deal with the immediate threat first. His own knife was small, too, so he scanned the ground for the fallen gun, spotting it just as Teresa grabbed for it. Another shot rang out, and the growls stopped. Thomas ran forward, helping Newt shove the now dead wolf off of Minho.

The second their leader was free, he sat up and clutched his arm to his chest, doubling over. Thomas could see thick blood seeping out of deep, long gashes. Minho let out a groan, his face screwed up in pain and his breathing fast and shallow.

Newt knelt next to him. He shrugged off the makeshift backpack and unfolded it. He tried to rip at the fabric, but it held strong. He grabbed the knife at his side, but it was coated in wolf blood and dirt.

"Gimme your knife, Tommy," he said and Thomas handed over the blade without hesitation. He looked up around them cautiously as he heard the sounds of tearing fabric. Teresa was standing over where the larger wolf had been, inspecting something on the ground.

 _It ran off_ , he heard her say in his mind. It was the first time she had spoken to him this way since they left the WICKED headquarters, and he was surprised to find that he ached with how badly he missed it. _There's blood. It must have got hit when the gun went off the first time._

"Tommy," Newt said. His voice was scarily calm, almost patient, but it carried an edge to it, one that demanded immediate response. "Take the pot, fill it up with water. Jorge, we need a fire now. Teresa, you keep that gun high and your eyes open."

Thomas hesitated, trying to remember which of them was carrying the pot. Newt must have taken his pause for questioning, because when he spoke next his voice lost all patience.

"I did my bloody tenure as a Med-jack," he said. "Do it!"

Thomas moved, even as he strained to think of who was carrying it. Brenda, thankfully, came to his rescue, slinging her pack off and shoving it into Thomas's hands before helping Jorge pick up sticks and tinder.

The pot was the only thing in there, so Thomas tossed the sheet next to Newt and ran back to the stream they had crossed just before the wolf attack.

It was shallow, not enough to submerge the pot, so he filled it halfway full and then scooped water in with cupped hands. It was so cold he couldn't even feel his fingers by the time he finished. When he returned, Jorge was building the fire on a patch of dirt where the dead leaves had been kicked away. It was just starting to smoke, but it would be a while before the fire was hot enough to boil the water. Brenda set a stack of larger sticks next to Jorge and whispered something to the older man. She got up and went over to Teresa, who was walking a perimeter around them, her eyes scanning the forest.

Minho and Newt hadn't moved. The blond was pressing a blood soaked sheet over the length of Minho's forearm. The Runner's skin was pale and his jaw was clenched. He didn't even seem to be acknowledging whatever Newt was whispering to him.

But he didn't look like he was about he die, so Thomas counted this as a win for the moment. Then again... He rubbed his shoulder where the scar from the Crank in the city still spiked with pain occasionally. He knew that even nonfatal wounds could cause a lot of complications. And this time… He didn’t think there wouldn't be any lifesaving exceptions by WICKED if Minho got an infection.

* * *

"I can't do much for it out here," Newt said. They sat around the dying fire, the five of them. Minho was asleep not far off, his arm wrapped in layers of WICKED issue bed sheet. He had protested, but moments after Newt had shoved him down onto the blanket, his eyes flickered closed and his breathing evened out.

Sleepy from blood loss, Newt had said. The blond had managed to stem the worst of it, but he couldn't do much more than wash the wounds with boiled rags and wrap it up. Thomas watched him, for some of it, but at the first sight of bone he had to excuse himself before he puked.

Now they were debating what to do, all without their leader. It was coming in on lunch time, but none of them felt hungry.

Newt picked at the bloodstain on his jacket cuff. His shirt was stained too, but he had zipped up the jacket to cover that. Thomas had watched him crouch by the stream after Minho was asleep, taking far more time than needed to wash his hands clean.

"He can't be walkin' around out here with all those gashes, covered or not. We need to get him somewhere with medical supplies," Newt said. "A doctor would be better, but I can... I can work with bandages and stuff. Needle and thread.”

Yeah, lunch was definitely off the table.

"I never even thought we'd have to worry about this," Newt went on. "We escape WICKED and end up getting mauled by bloody wolves? Aren’t they supposed to be afraid of people?"

"People, yes. Cranks, not so much," Jorge said. "Easy prey, the Gone ones, and they're all that ever wanders on foot in places like this anymore."

"So what do we do?" Thomas asked. "We still got the other group out there—we haven't seen a sign of them."

Newt shook his head. "We can't change that. If we see something, great, but we need to focus on him now," Newt said. "And that means finding civilization."

"We don't even know where we are," Teresa said. "How are we going to find a city?"

Newt was quiet. His eyes were glued on Thomas, looking him up and down.

"When you first got outta that box, all you wanted to be was a runner," Newt said. "So Tommy... you up for a run?"

* * *

The plan was simple: Thomas would run west until he saw some sign of civilization—people, a road sign, or whatever—or for five miles. If he hadn't found anything by then, he'd head back. Both Brenda and Teresa had volunteered to head east. Newt insisted that Teresa and her good aim—she had killed the wolf with a single shot while it tangled with both Minho and Newt on the ground—stay with them.

Thomas was showing Brenda some basic pre-run stretches, the sort that he had seen the Runners do in his first days in the Glade and that Minho had taught to him. Brenda was in good shape, but Thomas worried. Running wasn’t a way of life to her. Then again, Thomas had spent only days as a Runner himself, but he supposed he had the advantage of being trained by Minho, who had run the Maze more than anyone, as well as the advantage anything that WICKED had given him before erasing his memory and throwing him into that elevator.

Thomas glanced over at Minho, still asleep near the foot of a massive oak. He had never seen the dark haired boy so pale, and there were fresh blotches of blood blossoming on the white wrapping. Newt crouched next to him every few minutes, occasionally slipping his hand into Minho’s uninjured left.

As Thomas showed Brenda the proper way to stretch her hamstring, Teresa broke from her perimeter patrol and came up next to them.

“I would feel a lot better if one of you took the gun,” she said.

“We can run,” he reminded her. “And we can hide. At worst, we have our knives.”

Teresa’s jaw tightened and she followed his gaze as it returned to Minho.

“You guys are stuck here,” Brenda said. “I’d be more worried about that than a running target.”

He could tell that Teresa wanted to argue, but she kept quiet. As much as she worried, this was their only real option.

After Teresa had resumed her guard and they finished out the last few stretches, they separated and Thomas approached Newt. He was at Minho’s side, brushing locks of hair back from the Runner’s sweat slicked forehead.

He crouched and Newt looked up. His eyes were dull and echoed the exhaustion and fear they all felt.

“Fever,” Newt said, and he looked back to Minho. “I don’t think it’s infection. Hasn’t been time. I thought maybe the exertion or the blood loss made the Flare worse. But… I don’t like how high it is.”

Thomas swallowed. “We should get running then.”

Newt gave a hard nod and pulled his eyes away from Minho. He walked a few paces away and called over Brenda. Jorge rose from where he sat tending the fire and Teresa broke her pattern. They stood in a loose circle and went over the plan again. When Newt was satisfied that they were all on the same page, an uncomfortable stillness settled over them.

It was time for goodbyes.

As much as Thomas didn’t want to believe that this would end badly, he was no fool. WICKED was surely searching for them, and their plan to run along the road made them obvious. That, on top of the possibility of wolves, Cranks, and god only knew what else in this forest made him feel like a kamikaze pilot about to take off.

Too much of a goodbye and they would all be acknowledging the danger at hand. Too little and they all faced the chilling prospect of future regret.

Brenda broke the stillness, wrapping her arms around Jorge in one swift motion. They stayed like that for a while, before Brenda pulled away and hugged Teresa. Then Brenda embraced him, her hair, frizzy from the rain, tickling his nose.

When she pulled away, Newt clasped him on the shoulder before pulling him into a one arm hug.

“You run fast, yeah, Tommy?” he said, and Thomas nodded. The blond pulled away and extracted himself from the group, returning to his guard, just as vigilant and dedicated as Teresa’s, over their friend and leader.

Teresa looked at him with her deep blue eyes and Thomas thought he saw them glisten before she turned away and resumed her patrol.

Before he had the chance to be upset, she spoke to him. 

 _Be safe, Tom_ , Teresa said. Her voice within his head was more intimate, warm, and reassuring than a hug ever could be.

* * *

Running the Maze was easier. Maybe it was the company. The hours spent running with Minho were never lonely, even if they rarely spoke. Out here, Thomas had nothing and no one but himself, and the feeling of isolation set his nerves on end and reminded him of those first few days in his simulation, where WICKED had locked him in a white room and cut off his every means of contact. More than once, had forced himself to resist the temptation to reach out to Teresa. He only wanted to do that if it was necessary.

Maybe it was just the humidity. Thomas had stripped off his jacket five minutes into the run, tying it in a double knot around his waist. His skin was already slick with sweat and it didn’t dry and cool him off here like it did in the arid climate of the Maze. Now, maybe a mile and a half into his trek, his chest heaved with every breath. He was about to take his first break when he heard a faint roar in the distance.

For a moment, he feared that it was some forest beast, perhaps even greater than the wolves that had attacked them. But after a second and after hearing how the forest that flanked his left and right stilled as the sound grew, Thomas knew that it was not the natural call of any creature.

He dashed for the closest edge of the forest, running in ten feet and sliding onto his belly behind a young pine and two gnarled scrub oaks. From where he lay, he could see the road to the west.

He just hoped that anyone on the road wouldn’t see him.

The roar of the engine grew louder. Every muscle in Thomas’s body tensed as whatever was making the sound came closer. He wondered if the brush he had chosen to hide behind would be enough, but didn’t dare move to better cover in case he was spotted. He pressed himself against the ground and waited.

Over the crest of a hill, the machine emerged, slowly at first, and growing faster as it approached. It was a motorcycle, the chrome gleaming in the sunlight. On it sat a rider, their face hidden away behind a shiny black helmet and their torso clad in brown leather. A second later, another motorcycle came into sight. The driver was dressed similarly to the first, though much larger in size. Each had a shotgun in a holster across their backs.

Were they WICKED? Thomas wasn’t close enough to see if they had the same patches that were present on the WICKED personnel he’d seen in the past, but even if they didn’t, that proved nothing. Perhaps they were a part of whatever group had stormed the WICKED complex, or something else entirely. They could be scavengers, law enforcement, or even regular folk living their lives. Thomas didn’t know if weaponry was a way of life in this world, if WICKED had allowed him to see any reality in that chair.

Regardless, Thomas didn’t want to find out, and he didn’t want the others to either. He watched them streak past and disappear behind foliage, and then reached out to Teresa.

* * *

After warning Teresa to be aware and keep everyone away from the road, Thomas waited ten minutes before creeping out of the forest. There was no sign of the motorcyclists and Teresa had informed him that they heard the roar of engines disappear into the east, but Thomas wasn’t about to take any chances.

He ran on with a pang in his chest. Even if he could warn Teresa, he couldn’t do the same for Brenda, and could only hope that she had ample time to hear the motorcycles and find cover like he had.

It was another mile and a half when he saw it. He almost leaped into the forest when he saw the bright gleam of sunlight, but realized it was stationary before making a fool out of himself. The sign, bright green and white, bore the name of their salvation.

 _Enumclaw,_  4 Miles.

A few other names followed, but they were much farther. With Minho in his current state, seven miles was pushing it enough, and he doubted that the Runner, fierce stubbornness or not, would be able to make it more without some kind of treatment.

Thomas didn’t waste any time, turning on his heel and not stopping even to catch his breath on the way back. When he arrived at the place that marked the way to their encampment—a large pine that had fallen some time ago—he paused and caught his breath before entering into the forest. He wasn’t quiet, and Teresa greeted him with a raised gun, before realizing it was him and lowering it to give him an actual smile. 

“Glad you’re safe,” she said, and then crossed the distance between them to wrap her arms around him.

“You too,” he said. He wanted to hold her for longer, but now wasn’t the time. They separated and rounded a tree to the clearing where their temporary camp was. 

Minho was awake, propped up against a tree with a blanket slung over his shoulders. Thomas supposed blood loss made even those going through the hot stage of the Flare cold. He held his injured arm against his stomach. His shirt was more red-brown than white and he looked like he was arguing with Newt, who sat at his side. Jorge was keeping a lookout nearby and waved to Thomas as he approached.

“Tommy!” Newt said, cutting off whatever hissed words Minho spoke to him. Minho glanced at Thomas with a glare and he could tell that their leader wasn’t pleased about whatever actions had been taken in his stead. However, he also saw that there was more color in the boy’s face, and figured anger was a fair trade for health.

Thomas sat next to them, and he was almost grateful for WICKED’s experiments. If nothing else, his time in the Maze and the Scorch had given him impressive endurance. As hard as the run had been, he felt fine now.

Thomas told them about the sign and the nearby town while Teresa brought him some water.

“Great!” Newt said. “After Brenda gets back, we’ll get ready to—“

“Go after the others,” Minho cut in. He eyed Newt with a glare that was intimidating despite his injured state.

Newt wasn’t intimidated, however, and the set of his square jaw told Thomas that this argument had been going on for a while.

“We’re supposed to be heading North,” Minho said. “And if Brenda comes back with that shucking message from the others or whatever we were looking for, we’re going after that, not west.”

“Do you want me to unwrap your arm so you can see what that bloody wolf did to you?” Newt said. “We go after them, how long d’you think you’ve got before that gets infected? If it isn’t already. You saw what happened to Tommy; infection is a death sentence out here.”

“I’m already de—“

Newt pointed at him and cut him off.

“You are no good to anyone like this,” he said. “You can barely shucking stand. When are you going to get it through your bloody head that being a leader doesn’t mean being a martyr?”

Minho’s nostrils flared and he opened his mouth to argue, but Newt stood up.

“We don’t even bloody know what Brenda’s seen out there,” he said. “Useless talking about it now.”

Without so much as a glance at them, he walked away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Newt being a Med-jack is a personal headcanon to explain the time gap between his time as a Runner/his injury and the point where Alby became Leader and Newt his second in command. I touch on it a bit more in the next chapter, but my reasoning is essentially that he needed a job that was relatively low impact during his recovery. That cut out most of the physical labor involved in the other jobs. He was never particularly good at it (he just played nurse to Clint and Jeff a lot), but he picked up a few things and it was preferable to when he was stuck in bed and they made him darn socks.


	10. The Hand that Life Dealt Ya

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “The truth will set you free, but first it will piss you off.” ― Gloria Steinem

Brenda returned as the sun began its descent into the western sky. Her face was red and she breathed heavily as Jorge motioned her to a log and brought her the pot of water.

“South,” she said after drinking for a long while. “After about a mile, the road curves south. I didn’t see anything out there but an old ranger’s station.”

“Nothing?” Newt said. “No road signs or… anything?”

“No,” she said. “A few dirt roads, but nothing well traveled. And I kept my eyes peeled for any sign of your friends. If they went that way, they didn’t leave any marks.”

“They wouldn’t have taken it after the road veered south anyway,” Minho said. “They’d’ve kept north through the forest.”

“Might’ve headed west,” Newt said, the casual tone of his voice too pronounced to be anything but intentional.

“Thomas didn’t see any sign of them that way, either,” Minho said with a glare. “And besides, they don’t have any reason to head west. Neither do we.”

Newt rolled his eyes. “Not this klunk again,” he said.

“Yes this klunk again,” Minho said, raising his voice and sitting up straighter. “We can’t just run off wherever the shuck we want, slinthead.”

“We’re not!” Newt said. “We’re making sure your bloody arm doesn’t turn green and fall off.”

Minho stood up, the blanket pushed from his shoulders. He didn’t stumble or wobble, but Thomas could tell by the way his muscles strained and his jaw remained clenched that the motion was painful. For a brief moment, he wondered how easy of a time their leader would have making the journey to the town, but brushed the thought away. Minho may have felt like klunk, but he was tough, and he had pushed through worse than this back in the Scorch.

He marched up to Newt and stood menacingly over the blond.

“It’s my shucking arm,” Minho said. “I’ll let it fall off if I want! And I’ll have you know that—”

A bark of laughter stopped the Asian boy’s tirade before it had a chance to begin.

“You sound like a goddamn baby,” Jorge said. He leaned against a tree and leveled his gaze at Minho. “You’d prefer to march right on without an ounce of concern for yourself than admit you’re in a shit position and do what your friend—who’s smarter than you, mind—tells you to.”

Minho’s face grew more furious with each word, until his eyebrows drew close together and his lips curled back from his teeth in a snarl. Thomas was sure that, had the Hispanic man been standing within striking distance, Minho would have attacked. It was the distance, rather than Minho’s will, which kept violence at bay.

Of course, Jorge took this opportunity to take two very deliberate steps forward. At the same time, Newt stood and put a hand on Minho’s waist, twisting his fingers into the fabric of the t-shirt. Minho didn’t seem to register the contact at all, his irate gaze locked on Jorge.

“You’re too busy wallowing in your own shit—and don’t tell me you’re not just because you ain’t crying, because you’re letting the hand you got dealt control you,” Jorge said. “But you’re too busy feeling sorry for yourself to realize that these people care about you.”

Thomas shifted his stance as he saw Minho’s good hand tighten into a fist. If Minho, injured or not, decided to charge Jorge, Newt and his weak leg wouldn’t be able to hold him back for long. The last thing they needed right now was two Flare infected idiots getting into a brawl.

But then, Thomas caught the look in Jorge’s eyes. It wasn’t the look of someone suffering from disease induced insanity. It wasn’t the dark fury that clouded Minho’s eyes. Rather, they were ablaze with a contempt that had nothing to do with the Flare. Thomas frowned. He didn’t know what Jorge was doing, but he doubted that the man’s words were spoken in anger, as harsh as they may have been. Nor did he think that his end goal was violence, though his sturdy stance betrayed that he was prepared for it.

“I know exactly how your brain is workin’ right now, kid. You’re feeling sorry as shit and mad at everything. WICKED. The world. The flare. Me. Your friends, for caring too much. Yourself, for feeling like you can’t trust your own head anymore. Trust me, I know, and it ain’t fun and I won’t lie, it don’t get any easier,” Jorge said. “But what you’re doing is giving in. You’re letting it win by deciding that your life ain’t worth shit anymore.”

All at once, Thomas understood. It was one of those curious things he—they all—remembered, the common, bland knowledge devoid of any specific flair or flavor. Jorge’s words were the lingual equivalent to snapping someone out of a panicked state with a slap.

But as much as he understood Jorge’s intention, he didn’t know if it would succeed. Minho’s fingers twitched and then relaxed, the fist no longer balled so tightly that it shook, but his breathing picked up, the rise and fall of his chest pronounced.

“And I’ll let you in on a little secret, hermano,” Jorge said, his voice softening. He licked his lips and then broke into a smile that lacked any delight. “You are just as fucked as Brenda an’ me, and your life is worth just as much.”

Jorge paused. Minho’s good hand had returned to its white-knuckled state, the veins in his arm bulging. But his face relaxed, no longer contorted in rage. As it did so, a peculiar glint came to his eyes. He was still mad, that much was clear, but there was something else, too… something like fear, or panic.

“Now,” Jorge said after the words had time to sink in. “You need to act like a real fuckin’ leader and do what’s best for everyone, including yourself.”

With that, he stepped back and leaned against the tree again. No one else moved. There was a stillness in the forest, and it seemed as if even the woodland creatures were in awe of the man’s brutal monologue.

Then Minho took a step forward. It was only one, but whether that was intentional or because Newt tightened his fingers in Minho’s shirt or because his injury caught up with him, they would never know.

“Cool it,” Newt said. “You just need to sit for a second and—“

“Slim it,” Minho barked at Newt, then turned his attention to Jorge. “Who gave you the right, you—What was the word, fucking? Fucking— _fucking_ klunk sucking son of a—“

Jorge was in Minho’s face in a fraction of a second. Thomas stepped forward, but he didn’t want to grab Minho’s injured arm unless he had no other choice.

“You wanna go, culo?” Jorge said, face inches from Minho’s. “Because that didn’t work so good for you last time. Think you still owe me a couple fingers. But if it’d make you feel better, regain a little dignity, then take a shot.”

Minho took the shot. His fist was at the ready and he tried to slam it into Jorge’s stomach. But the older man was prepared. He grabbed Minho by the forearm and twisted it, pushing forward as he did so. Between blood loss, pain, anger, and the force of having his own attack turned against him, Minho lost his balance. The only reason he didn’t topple straight to the ground was because Newt caught and steadied him, grabbing him around the waist with both arms.

Thomas moved forward and grabbed Minho’s shoulder, far above the highest of the wounds. Minho _growled_ at him and tried to buck the both of them off as he surged toward Jorge, who had taken a step back. The Hispanic man looked unconcerned with the enraged, Flare infected teenager four feet away from him.

“Let go of me!” Minho snarled. Thomas tightened his grip, grabbing Minho’s other shoulder as the former Keeper pushed against him with his injured arm, apparently unconcerned with the pain.

“Get a buggin' grip,” Newt said, and as he did so, he did something with his feet—and Thomas didn’t know how, between his weak leg and Minho’s flailing—that knocked the Runner off balance again, forcing Thomas and Newt to support most of his weight and momentarily lessening his thrashing. “You’re actin’ like you’ve been bloody stung, for god’s sake!”

That stopped Minho completely. Thomas didn’t know if it was the comparison or the pain catching up with him or him just finally snapping back to normal, but he stopped his struggle. He stayed still for a moment, his breath fast and his eyes still locked on Jorge, as if he could will the man to burst into flame.

After a moment, Thomas and Newt allowed him to regain his footing, though neither lessened their grip.

They stayed like that for a few anxious seconds, Jorge’s bravado measured against Minho’s fury. Time ticked by slowly and Thomas watched every minuscule twitch Minho made. After a time, Newt broke the silence and the tension, shifting to stand between Minho and Jorge. He looked Minho square in the eye, drawing his attention away from the older man, and something inside of Minho caved. His shoulders relaxed.

“You look pale,” Newt said, and while it was true, they all knew it was nothing more than a flimsy excuse. “You ought sit down.”

Minho mumbled something that Thomas couldn’t hear, but he let Newt lead him back to his previous post by the tree, then slunk down, his back against the trunk. He wasn’t looking at any of them, least of all Jorge.

Jorge also returned to his spot, leaning against the tree and crossing his arms.

Minutes of strained silence dragged by, until everyone found themselves grounded again. 

“So!” Teresa said so suddenly that Thomas flinched. Her voice was unnecessarily loud and upbeat, and she must have realized this because she lowered it as she went on, turning to Brenda. “I’m glad you didn’t have any trouble with those bikers. I was a little freaked out when Thomas told me about them.”

“Oh,” Brenda said. “I’d… I’d forgotten to tell you.”

“Forgotten to tell us what?” Newt said. He looked happy to move on, though he kept throwing Minho heedful glances every few seconds.

“I heard them—the motorcycles,” Brenda said. “I hid in the forest, but they never passed me. I figured that they’d taken one of the dirt roads north and so I kept going. Then I turned around.”

She proceeded to tell them about the ramshackle ranger’s station several miles up the road. On her return trip, she had seen the bright glare of sunlight on metal and ceased her run, ducking into the forest and skirting by carefully. There were two motorcycles parked at the ranger’s station, but no bikers in sight.

“You just can’t trust people in places like this,” she said as she finished telling her story. “They might not be bad people, but… it’s a bad world.”

“Might’ve just stopped over for a rest,” Newt said. He glanced at Minho, who was staring off into the forest “The road that way might still be clear.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Teresa said. “The other’s wouldn’t have headed along the road, not after they saw it turning south.”

“She’s right,” Minho said. The Runner hadn’t participated in the discussion since they had pried him and Jorge apart, and this was the first he’s spoken since. “They wouldn’t take the road that way. They’d keep north. Or… or, if they got the same idea as us, they might’ve sent a scout and decided to head west to the town. Just because we didn’t see any signs doesn’t mean they didn’t leave any. It’s been raining for days.”

Minho glanced between each of them, but never once met any of their eyes. He had the feeling that Jorge’s words had affected their leader more than he would ever admit.

“Besides, we can’t go running into a fight with m…” Minho paused and sighed. “With _us_ in this state. We’ve been running on fumes for days. Right now, the town’s our best bet.”

“So… you’re saying we’ll head west?” Newt said.

“Yeah,” Minho said. He glanced up at the sky, which was starting to darken with the first inkling of sunset. “But not tonight. We’ll head out in the morning.”

* * *

"It's my arm, not my legs, so stop fussing, slinthead," Minho said, jerking away from Newt's sixth or seventh attempt to retie the makeshift sling that held his injured arm. "It's fine!"

Thomas held back a smirk. Newt had spent the morning rebandaging Minho’s arm with the last of their sheets, and then proceeded to baby him about everything, from asking the Runner if he was cold to making sure his bandages felt alright. It was driving Minho insane, but after the fight last night, Minho didn’t seem inclined to get truly upset.

"Are you _sure_ it's comfortable?" Newt said,. "Tommy says we've got seven miles. It could be cutting off circulation to your other arm or... something."

"It's fine," Minho growled. He was on his feet, but he didn’t look much better off than yesterday. None of them did, considering their food had run out with their meager dinner last night. "If we got seven shuck miles, then you're wasting time."

The tall blond boy crossed his arms over his chest. "If it starts to hurt, you bloody tell me. Good that?"

"Newt..."

"Good that?"

"...Good that," Minho said after a while.

“Great,” Newt said, a small smile blooming on his lips. “Now, do you need help peein’ again?”

Minho groaned.

* * *

Thomas didn't want to watch, but he was Newt's designated helper. 'Nurse Thomas,' as Brenda said with a teasing smile. The drug store was well stocked with medical supplies, bandages and antiseptics and honest to god painkillers. He, Newt, and Minho were camped out near the front doors, taking advantage of the waning sunlight. Jorge and Brenda, armed with newly acquired flashlights (and wasn't it lucky that batteries lasted a while?), were searching the depths of the store for food and other supplies.

Teresa was on watch, gun in hand and pacing outside of the front entrance. The town had proven to be small and completely abandoned. They hadn’t seen any people (and a lack of signs of their friends was a disappointment to them all) or threatening animals, but they weren’t about to let their guard down.

Minho sat propped up against the end of an aisle, his arm still in its sling. Newt was on his right, and their supplies were laid out on one of the sheets. Gauze, elastic bandages, antibiotic ointment, antiseptic wipes, a needle and thread, and—Thomas thought this was the strangest of all, until Newt explained it—a large bottle of something called Everclear. Newt said that the alcohol was supposed to help kill any infection, and, he said with a smirk directed at Minho, it would make a decent anesthetic.

That idea had almost been thrown out the window when Minho took a whiff of the liquid and vowed never to let anything that vile down his throat. He relented when Newt insisted that it wouldn’t be any worse than Gally’s special blend. Thomas failed to stifle his laughs as he watched Minho choke down a several mouthfuls of the liquid, along with a few orange painkillers.

Thomas, as the nurse, sat next to the pile of supplies, ready to hand Newt whatever he asked for. Currently, he was tasked with filling a bowl with the alcohol. He wrinkled his nose as the fumes hit him. At least he didn't have to drink it.

"Now take our needle and thread and put 'em in the bowl," Newt said as he untied the knot that held Minho's sling in place. Minho winced as his arm came free and was forced to hold its own weight again. Newt took it and cradled it in one glove clad hand as he started to remove the bandages.

"Were you really a Med-jack?" Thomas asked, unwinding thread from a spool. It was bright blue, and intended for sewing cloth, not flesh. He wore gloves, too, the latex making his hands sweat. "I kinda just figured you went from being a Runner to Alby's second in command."

Newt shook his head, mumbling an apology as he peeled a strip of fabric away from skin and Minho cursed.

“He was a klunk Med-jack,” Minho said. “Only reason I’m letting him do this is ‘cause he was always good at sewin' up clothes.”

“Slim it. I became a Med-jack after… after my leg got hurt," Newt said, throwing the dirty cloth aside and starting on another. "Alby wasn't always leader. 'Fore him we had Nick, and Alby was his go to shank."

Thomas had heard the name once or twice, but he never thought to ask.

"What was he like?" he said.

"He was... not so stern as Alby," Newt said. "A little more charismatic."

"He means funner," Minho chimed in. "Nick was a riot."

"Alby was plenty fun," Newt said with a glare. He was almost done removing the makeshift bandages, and Thomas grimaced at the state of Minho's arm. There were clear punctures from the teeth, but there were gashes, too, from the way the wolf had shook the arm in her maw.

"Was he the leader for a long time?"

"Ever since the first of us woke up in that bloody place, right ’til a bit ‘fore you came,” Newt said, casting down the last of the bloody bandages. "Pass me one of the rags."

Thomas did as he was told and watched as Newt poured water on it from one of the drinking bottles. There were cases stacked around the old registers, and this way they didn't have to worry about the water having some nasty parasite or germ in it. He squeezed it out and then started to wipe at the dried blood on Minho's arm.

"How many were there?" Thomas said. He swallowed as he watched Newt wipe away the blood, making the nasty, red gashes all the more visible. Some were shallow, breaking little more than the skin, but others were deep enough that Thomas thought he saw the white flash of bone more than once. “I mean, the first Gladers.”

"Thirty," Newt said. He asked for another rag and started repeating the process, cleaning until most of the skin on Minho's arm was blood free and only the gashes remained. "Us, Alby, Nick, most of the keepers... all part of the first group."

Newt told Thomas to thread the needle with one of the lengths of string. It wasn't easy in the dying light, but Thomas managed to pull the string through the eye and loop it over. Newt was pouring the liquor over Minho's arm and the Runner hissed and screwed his eyes shut.

"Shuck me," he said through gritted teeth, then bit his lips together and breathed heavily through his nose. He let out a shaky breath through his lips as Newt finished and patted his arm dry with a clean rag. "Was that really necessary?"

"Cleans it out," Newt said. He motioned for the needle and Thomas handed it to him. "Gimme some light, Tommy?"

Thomas flicked on the flashlight and pointed it at Minho. He looked away, biting back the urge to vomit at the sight of his friend's arm.

"Hey now," Minho said, and his sharp intake of breath told him Newt had made the first stab with the needle. "You don't get to be sick. It's my shuck arm."

"You can be sick for the both of us then," Thomas muttered, still not watching the scene. He shook his head. "How uh, how many of you are left?"

"Huh?" Newt said. "Quit flexin’ your arm, slinthead."

“I can’t. It’s my natural state of being.”

"Of the original Gladers," Thomas went on. It was odd, talking in the middle of what was basically minor surgery, but it seemed to keep all of them distracted in a good way. "How many's left?"

They were both quiet for a while, and Thomas knew he'd tread on a sore point. Not for the first time, he was reminded how his mouth could sometimes jump ahead of his brain… or his tact.

"Three," it was Minho who answered. "Me, Newt, 'n Frypan."

"Frypan?" Thomas asked. He supposed it made sense. It wouldn't do to have a group without a cook, and Frypan was clearly the best option.

"Yeah," Minho said, “Dunno how that shank lasted so long. Sat in his kitchen for more’n two shuck years an' then kept on through the Scorch."

"We lost a lot in the beginning," Newt said, his tone a stark change from the joking attempts of Minho. "Escape attempts, first encounters with Grievers... a bloody disagreement, once. Most of the graveyard was those of us who came first."

"A... disagreement?" Thomas said. The Glade always seemed so orderly, so... oddly peaceful. Other than his trouble with Gally and everything it caused, Thomas hadn’t seen much in the way of fighting. "Someone killed someone else?"

"First time we banished someone," Newt said. "Nick's idea. It's why we banished Ben. Number one rule, Nick said: Don't hurt another Glader. Everythin’ else... there were other punishments. But hurtin' people wasn't something he could abide by. A fair fight or a tussle's one thing, but... there were times when guys snapped."

They fell into silence after that, Thomas contemplating what the Glade was like before he came along. He glanced at Teresa, pacing a trail into the ground on watch. They really did this, caused so many people so much pain. Turned them against each other... They had blood on their hands, sure as any other member of WICKED.

The sun was gone by the time Newt finished the last stitch, working only by the blue glow of the flashlight. Thomas chanced a glance at Minho. His eyes were closed, face pale and beaded with sweat. Some anesthesia. His arm looked... well, instead of looking like a rag doll that a dog chewed up and spit out, it looked like one that got chewed up, spit out, and sewn back together.

Which was a pretty accurate description.

Newt asked him for a change of gloves and the antibiotic ointment, and Thomas handed them over, watched Newt smear the greasy, yellowish sludge on each of the gnarly, stitched up gashes. There were a couple places where there wasn't enough skin to sew together, so Newt had no choice but to leave those open.

"Can you still move your fingers?" Newt said as he carefully laid a thick patch of gauze over one of the open punctures.

Minho mumbled something that Thomas couldn't make out, his eyes closed all the while. His fingers twitched and Newt sighed.

"Well at least I didn't make it worse," he said. Minho groaned in response. "You know, you'd feel better if you drank more.”

“I am not touching one more freaking drop of that,” Minho said, cracking one eye open to glare at the boy covering his arm in gauze.

“Your choice,” Newt said. He grabbed the elastic bandage and started to wind it around Minho's arm.

"You had anythin' come back?" Minho muttered. Newt paused and frowned at him, and Minho explained, his eyes open and transfixed on Newt's ministrations. "Your memory. Of before. Figured maybe since we left the Maze, we'd remember."

Newt paused for the barest second. "Nothing," he said. "Have you?"

Minho's eyes jumped from his arm to Thomas.

"What about you?" he said. Thomas wondered if he ignored the question on purpose. "Any more of those weird dreams we should know about?"

Thomas considered telling them about his latest one, the board meeting. He decided against it. Now wasn't the time to talk about things with serious implications.

"No."

"Figures," Minho said with a snort, resting his head against the pillar behind him and closing his eyes.


	11. Seattle or Bust

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “A cold wind was blowing from the north, and it made the trees rustle like living things.” ― George R.R. Martin, A Game of Thrones

Cold, canned green beans weren't exactly Thomas's idea of a great meal, but at that moment it was the best thing he'd ever tasted. Brenda and Jorge had returned with a shopping cart stacked with blankets and canned foods and more water. They reported that most of the store had been untouched, like whoever owned it had simply walked away one day.

"Ain't uncommon," Jorge told them over their cold meal. They decided not to have a fire, since the building protected them from most of the elements and they had more blankets now. "Small towns like this... Bunch of people get the Flare, die or get moved to a place like you found us. Then there's not enough of the town to function, everybody moves on to a bigger city."

"The FDU's keep the cities pretty safe, but it doesn't always work," Brenda said. "Two years ago there was an outbreak in Philadelphia and WICKED put the whole city into quarantine. They pulled out two weeks later and the city was just... empty. Only the rats were left."

"How can they just do that?" Newt said. "Don't people care?"

"People're scared, hermano,” Jorge said. "They hear horror stories about the Flare—which ain't too far from the truth—and they're about ready to let WICKED do whatever they want as long as there's a promise of a cure."

"Their publicity's declining, though," Brenda said. "Before I got taken to the Scorch, a whole bunch of their backers pulled out. Really rich investor types. And some people take it a step further, as we saw."

"So they're losing face," Teresa said. "And people are losing hope."

"I wouldn't say that," Brenda said. "People are looking for hope in other places."

"Like what?"

"Some people look to religion," Brenda said, and Thomas recalled what the dying woman told him. Zealots. WICKED's headquarters had been attacked by people who thought the Flare was some divine plague.

"Most of those investors," Brenda continued. "I hear they wanted to fund more research on Bliss, see if they can come up with a long term treatment that way. At least slow it down, if not stop it completely."

"Any luck?" Minho said. They were the first words he'd spoken since Newt had finished wrapping his arm. Thomas wondered if they others heard what he did in Minho's tone: Hope.

Brenda and Jorge shook their heads in tandem.

"Not since I got dumped in the Scorch, at least," she said.

* * *

The night passed without incident and they spent the few hours after dawn packing away food and bottles of water. Teresa suggested taking the rickety shopping cart along to carry more, but Newt shot her down, saying that they wouldn't want to attract the attention of anything that remained in this town.

During the night, clouds had moved in and soft snow was falling, leaving a gentle dusting on the outside world.

"You still need a doctor," Newt said when the topic of what they should do now was breached.

"No, I don't," Minho said. "We'll take some extra bandages with us, but the important thing is finding the rest of the shanks. We need to head back."

"You saw what happened to Tommy in the Scorch," Newt said. He was pacing around, his breakfast half eaten in its can. Thomas sighed and walked to the doors of the store, refusing to get involved even as his name was brought up. Outside, the snow was turning to sludge in the streets, becoming watery and brown.

"Thomas got shot with a rusty bullet and dragged through a dirty city," Minho said. "You patched me up and I feel fine."

"We don't even know where they bloody went," Newt said. "That sign had more cities on it, further down the road. One of 'em's bound—”

Thomas frowned as a distant hum started somewhere out of sight. He glanced back at the group, but no one else seemed to notice. He stepped through the door, its glass long since shattered. He rounded the corner of the building, but ducked back when he saw movement on the road ahead.

He peeked around the corner, careful not to expose too much of himself, and tried to get a better look.

Wheeling slowly down the road to avoid debris were two vehicles. One was a sleek, black four door car with dark tinted windows. It looked like it would be more in place in an upper class neighborhood rather than the ruins of a devastated town. Behind it was a van, white and dirty and dented.

Thomas dashed back inside, where Newt and Minho were still arguing.

"Cars," he said. "Two of 'em, coming slow up the road."

"Shuck," Minho said, struggling to get to his feet one handed. Newt tried to help, but the Runner shrugged him off and managed to stand upright a moment later. "Grab the bags, we'll go deeper into the store."

Everyone hurried to comply, pushing what they couldn't carry out of sight of the doors.

"Think it's WICKED?" Newt said as they started to make their way deeper into the store. It wasn't large, but the lack of windows meant that it was a dark trek, and none of them wanted to pull out flashlights and make themselves more obvious.

"Doesn't matter," Thomas said. "But who else would it be?"

"Could be someone passing through," Brenda offered. "Some people are bound to still use this road."

"Didn't look like anyone just passing through to me," Thomas said. They reached the back of the store and crouched behind an aisle of gum. "They were going slow, looking for something."

"Slim it," Newt hissed. "It echoes like a bloody cave in here."

They fell silent. Every shuffle, every heavy breath, sent chills up Thomas's spine before he realized it came from one of his friends. They were too far away from the entrance to hear the hum of the engines, but each of them strained to make out a sound that would alert them to anything happening.

At some point during their wait, Teresa's hand found his. He entwined their fingers together and gave a gentle squeeze. She squeezed back and he once again felt the brush of her on his mind. She spoke no words. It was more like a soft exhalation against his consciousness.

They must have been kneeling there for at least five minutes, though each second seemed an eternity, before they heard the unmistakable slam of a car door.

Almost as if they were of one mind, each of them reached for their weapons, knives and, in the case of Teresa, the pistol.

Every breath was light, silent as they waited. Then came the crunch of glass against concrete. Someone was coming into the store. From the soft thuds and scrapes, it was more than one person, though Thomas couldn't guess how many. There could be more than a dozen between the car and the van.

Teresa's hand tightened around Thomas's.

"We know you're in there," a voice boomed through the darkness. A man, deep and with an accent Thomas couldn't place, though he knew somehow that he heard it before.

"My name is Butch Sheldon and I've been contracted to extend an offer to you," the man went on. "The individual who hired me believes that you have a mutual interest in the destruction of WICKED."

They looked at each other as best they could in the darkness of the store. Thomas could make out little more than outlines, but it was enough to know where everyone was.

"It's a trap," Minho hissed under his breath, loud enough for them to hear but hopefully quiet enough that their company up front couldn't. "It's gotta be. No one else would know where to track us."

"Why would WICKED try to trick us?" Teresa hissed back. "They could just take us."

"It could be another test," Thomas offered. "Or... or, to avoid a fight. Brenda said they were losing support."

"They tricked us after we got out of the Maze," Minho said. "And the whole time in those shucking machines. I say make a break for it, get out of here."

"How?" Teresa said. "They're at the doors and we only have one gun."

"There's an exit in the back," Brenda said. Her voice sounded shaky. She and Jorge had as much to lose by getting recaptured by WICKED as they did. WICKED, after all, stuck them in that burning hell hole.

"A fire door," Jorge said. "Near the other corner."

"We can make it if we go slow and quiet," Minho said. "Jorge, lead."

At an almost achingly slow pace, Jorge started in the direction of the emergency exit. They followed single file, using the shelves and the darkness to their advantage. Thomas didn't let go of Teresa's hand, allowing her to lead him through the depths of the store.

Butch Sheldon continued to call out to them when they failed to respond.

"We aren't going to hurt you," he said. His tone was tired and he sounded like he was talking to a group of children. Then again, that’s probably what most people saw them as.

Thomas didn't think those of them who survived the Maze counted as children anymore.

"But I do have instructions to deliver the four of you to my employer," Butch said. "And I do not intend to fail at my job. Make yourselves known and we will discuss things."

Thomas wanted to laugh at his silly attempts at negotiation, and would have if not for the fact that it would give away their position.

As they dashed through a break in the shelving, Thomas saw the outline of three tall figures in the doorway. It didn't look like any of them were holding weapons, but he couldn't be sure.

They reached the door and paused.

"I am going to give you ten more seconds," Butch said. "And then we will spread out and search this building. Your time starts now."

The man started counting.

"They're gonna see the light from the door," Minho said. "We open it and run like hell."

The plan seemed as good as any.

Butch was on six when Jorge slammed open the door and they all rose from their crouch and ran out.

Straight into a circle of men clad in black armor and holding guns. Each of them wore a mask over their noses and mouths, the surface crisscrossed with tiny holes.

"Figured you'd take the fire door," said a man who, from what little Thomas could see of his face, wasn't much older than he was. "Now how 'bout you put away those weapons and we can have a nice talk?"

None of them made a move. The air was heavy with more than humidity as they stood there, knives against guns in a tense standoff. If they moved, they wouldn't have a chance. Thomas felt the vice like grip of Teresa's hand against his, their fingers still entwined.

Footsteps came from behind them and Thomas didn't have to look to know who it was, but he glanced over his shoulder anyway. Butch Sheldon walked through the fire door, flanked by two men.

He was maybe forty years old, tall, with close cut blond hair, a square frame and face. His eyes were narrow and creased at the corners with crow's feet. And he was the only one not wearing a mask. 

"Woulda been much simpler if we talked inside," he said, circling around the group to stand in front of them. The other two blocked their escape route back through the store. Butch didn't have any weapons, his hands held behind his back as if he were taking a stroll on the beach.

Thomas frowned and tried to focus on the guns. At the end of the barrel, there were two small prongs. A nonlethal option? Electricity or tranquilizers or something? A quick scan of the group in front of them confirmed that all the guns were like that.

Still, if they made a hostile move, that just made it more likely for them to shoot, and Thomas was willing to bet that, even if they weren't shooting bullets, those guns hurt.

"Now I believe my comrade asked you to put away your weapons so we can parley," Butch said.

Again, no one moved, but after a few seconds Newt stuck his knife into his pocket, the handle sticking out. He showed them his empty hands and then folded his arms, leaning to keep his weight off his bum leg.

Minho glared at Newt and held firm onto his knife, its black blade glinting in the sunlight.

Brenda followed Newt's lead, and then Jorge, both of them tucking their blades away.

"You put down yours, too," Minho said, glaring daggers at Butch.

Butch cocked his head to the side, regarded Minho with a curious expression. Then he smirked, and it was the kind a parent gives to a disobedient child before letting the kid think he got his way. He motioned with his fingers and the troops lowered their weapons. With no firearms aimed at them, Thomas could breathe easier.

He stowed away his knife and watched Teresa tuck the gun into the front of her pants, where it would be easy to grab later. Only Minho was left, and with a glance around him, he tucked the knife away too.

"Now we can all be friends," Butch said. He glanced at their group. "I see the first of our problems. There are six of you. I was told four. Care to explain?"

"The first of our problems," Minho spat. His left fist was clench at his side, like he was just waiting for a chance to use it. Thomas gulped, knowing that this could just as quickly take a turn for the worst like yesterday’s argument with Jorge. "Is that none of us are ever going back to WICKED. No how."

"Good that," Newt said. He may have been the first of them to lower his weapon, but Thomas knew that he wouldn't hesitate to pull it out again if push came to stun guns.

"We're not with WICKED," Butch said. "The opposite in fact."

"That's a shucking lie," Minho said.

"I'm not sure what... what was it, 'shucking'? means, but I assure you," Butch said. "We are not WICKED's allies. That's why we were sent to find you.”

Before Minho could start, Newt stepped in.

"If you ain't with WICKED, who are you?"

"We're contractors," Butch said, like that explained everything. As far as Thomas knew, contractors built houses. "We were hired to find and retrieve you."

"For WICKED," Minho said.

Butch sighed, pinched the bridge of his nose. He seemed frustrated with all the negotiation, like his job usually didn't entail anything more than violence. Maybe it didn't.

"No, not for WICKED. For Vivian Gold.”

All of them frowned.

"Who's that?" Thomas asked. The more this man spoke, the less he thought they were from WICKED. However, when it came to WICKED, Thomas learned that he couldn't always trust his instincts.

"She's a very wealthy woman who believes you have a mutual interest in WICKED's destruction,” Butch said. “Was that or was that not the first thing I said to you?”

"So some old rich lady just happened to hire a bunch of gun toting maniacs who just so happen to know where to find us," Minho said. He was smiling now, the sort of manic smile you get when everything's been shucked to hell. "And she did this because... she wanted to bond over how much we hate WICKED?"

Butch clicked his tongue and returned Minho's smile, matching him for crazy.

"That about sums it up," he said. "You still haven't explained the extra two."

"We're not explaining anything!" Minho yelled, all traces of his smile gone. "We're not going with you, and if that's an issue you can shoot me."

"That can be arranged."

As Minho stepped toward the large man, Newt stepped in front of him. He held Minho's shoulder with one hand and pointed at Butch with the other.

"You are klunk at this," he said. Thomas wasn't sure if the comment was aimed at Butch or at Minho. "Let us talk about this ourselves. Privately."

Butch seemed to consider that for a few a seconds before nodding. He told his men to stand down and the circle around them dissolved.

"You have five minutes," Butch said. "And if you run, we will chase you down."

He and his troops walked off down the little alley. They stayed close by, but they were out of earshot as long as they kept quiet.

"Are you shucking negotiating with him?" Minho hissed, jerking Newt's hand away from his shoulder roughly.

"Terribly sorry," Newt said, returning Minho's glare just as intensely. "I don't think 'shoot me' is goin’ to bloody get us anywhere."

"And considering going back to WICKED will? That is whacked!”

"He said they're not with WICKED," Teresa jumped in. "So... what if they aren't?"

"Shuck that," Minho said. "And you don't get a shuck vote, after all the times you shucked us over for WICKED."

Teresa sneered at him.

"There's a chance they might not be," Thomas said. "We have to consider that."

"And there's a better chance they are and this is some shucking game to them," Minho said, shaking his head like he couldn't believe the lot of them. "And there is no shucking way I am ever letting WICKED take me back again."

"Is that where we're at?" Newt said. "Freedom or death?"

"Yeah," Minho said with a nod. "That's where I'm at at least."

"You're a slinthead," Newt hissed. "You of all of us could benefit and your bloody response is 'oh well, let's die'?"

Minho let out a bark of laughter. "That's freaking rich coming from you. Say, did you ever tell Tommy," he spat the name like a bad taste, with an over the top impression of Newt's accent and a glare at Thomas. "How you got that—“

Newt grabbed Minho's shirt, fisting it tightly and pulling the shorter boy toward him. Minho let out a yelp and screwed his face up in pain as the taller boy jarred his recently stitched arm.

"If you know what's good for you, you'll slim it."

Thomas saw several of the troops watching the situation and shook his head when they started over. They stopped, but didn't retreat all the way back to the group, keeping a close eye on the boys who were on the verge of a fight.

"Stop," Teresa said, touching Newt's shoulder gently. Newt relaxed a little, his shoulders lowering and his hand losing some of the fabric of Minho's shirt.

After another second, he let go. Minho still looked angry, but he had, for the most part, been oddly subdued since yesterday. The showdown with Butch Sheldon was the first time Thomas had seen him get so much as visibly annoyed.

And, besides, Minho was always more inclined to back down if Newt was involved.

"What do you two think?" Teresa asked, looking at Brenda and Jorge, who stood side by side. They glanced at each other.

"They don't want us," Jorge said. "They said they were after four, and it's clear which four they're talking about."

"That doesn't mean you can't come with us," Thomas said, a stabbing pain in his chest at the thought of being separated again. "We shouldn't split up."

"I know a place in Colorado, near Denver. Me an' Bren can hang low, maybe get some help," Jorge said. "We'll get a pen from the hard ass there and I'll give you the address."

"You can't," Thomas said, and Teresa nodded in agreement.

"They don't want us, Thomas," Brenda said. "They probably only want immunes, whether it's WICKED or not. If they let us walk away now, then we... we'll be there to help you if you need it."

Brenda's face was red and she couldn't meet Thomas's gaze. He didn’t think her reasons really had anything to do with being there to help them, but he couldn't blame her for wanting to walk away while she could. This wasn’t her fight.

Still, he worried. He worried if these guys really would let them walk away and he worried what would happen as the Flare progressed. He thought back to Gally's folder and his dreams. Was WICKED really close to discovering a cure? Were they endangering—no, _killing_ —thousands of people by refusing to help them?

"So that does it?" Minho said, glancing at each of them like they were aliens. "We're seriously going with them?"

"We ain’t got much of a choice," Newt said. His anger was gone, replaced by the calm that usually dominated his demeanor. "And I'm not lettin’ you bloody get yourself killed."

Minho shook his head, running his uninjured hand through his dirty, greasy hair.

"If they only want immunes," Jorge said. His eyes were locked on Minho and his words were slow and measured, the sort you used when talking to a skittish animal. Thomas thought about the man, how he always seemed so in control. In retrospect, even his behavior when they first met in the Scorch seemed practiced, performed like a role. If this was him with the Flare, Thomas wondered what he was like before. "Then you could come with us."

There was a long pause as Minho stared at Jorge. They hadn’t spoken much to each other since yesterday, and Thomas didn’t know where they stood. There was always a sort of edgy tension mingled with a mutual respect between them, one that he saw emerge after meeting up with them in the city and that continued even through last night’s events.

The look in Minho’s eyes was contemplative and Thomas realized that he was actually considering Jorge’s offer. Thomas held his breath as the stabbing ache in his chest intensified. Brenda and Jorge were one thing, and splitting from them was awful, but Minho was… Minho. He was one of Thomas’s best friends, and there was no way in hell that he would let him go, not without Thomas by his side.

But after a long moment, Minho shook his head. "If these shank are goin'," he said, a smirk playing on his lips. The playfulness didn't reach his eyes, which looked cold and dark and more tired than Thomas had ever seen them. "They'll need me to be the voice of reason."

"Good that," Jorge said, mirroring Minho's smirk. "But don't forget, you still owe me some fingers, and I don't want any of that pinky bullshit, hermano.”

* * *

Butch was only too happy to agree to their conditions. The first was that Brenda and Jorge—who, they assured him, were not involved in WICKED's experiments—be allowed to walk away unhindered and unharmed. They said their goodbyes quicker than they would have liked, with Brenda issuing each of them hugs (including Minho, who didn't even grumble about it) and Jorge leaving them with a Colorado address. The stabbing pain in Thomas's chest didn't subside even as he watched them disappear down the road.

The second was that they be allowed to keep their weapons, and the third was that they not be separated at any point or for any reason. That was how they ended up in the sleek black car Thomas had first seen driving slowly up the street. The van—and another that had been parked out of sight—was filled with Butch's men, while the leader himself drove the car.

Teresa took the front seat, and the boys took the back, Minho in the middle so the seat belt (Butch insisted) wouldn't hurt the arm in a sling over his chest.

The progress out of the town was slow, and there was a tense moment when they took a sharp turn south and the four of them shared looks of concern: Were they going back to the same WICKED facility?

But the constant westward progression was enough to assuage their worry until the highway turned due west. They passed through several small towns that were similarly abandoned, and once drove by a farm with a number of people in old styles of dress working the fields. Thomas wondered if they were immunes, or if they simply used seclusion as a means of avoiding infection.

"Where are we going?" Teresa asked.

"Seattle," Butch said. "Miss Vivian's estate."

"Seattle?" Minho said with a frown. "We're in Washington?"

"How'd you know that?" Newt asked. When Minho didn't respond, Newt elbowed him lightly in the ribs and asked again.

"Dunno," Minho mumbled, then leaned his head against the seat and closed his eyes. "Wake me when we get there."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FYI, Enumclaw, Washington is a real town and the road they came across was the 410. That puts the WICKED facility, since they've been heading north this whole time, on Mt. Rainier.


	12. Like a Razor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I believe in the non-existence of the past, in the death of the future, and the infinite possibilities of the present." - J.G. Ballard, What I Believe

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A note about time: Dashner's math regarding the Gladers always bugged me. By my count, the initial group would have had to be close to fifty boys, which just seems large. While this is almost entirely a book-based fanfic (I started writing it before I knew anything about the film), I have elected to use the film's three year timeframe for the Glade in place of the book's two years, with an initial starting group of 30 (I won't bore you with all my math and estimations). There are a few other parts where I am going to use the film's version of events, as well, and they will be noted when mentioned.
> 
> Now, I want to say thank you to everyone who's plodded through thirty-five thousand words of my headcanons and wishful thinking. This chapter--specifically toward the end--is something that I have been eager to share because it's one of the few scenes that I absolutely knew was going to happen when I started writing this story. It was cemented before I even had a concept of the grand overall plot and, though it may not seem like it, has been a driving force behind a lot of things up until this point. 
> 
> So yes, thank you to each and every one of you who has read, left kudos, and commented with such kind words. It means a lot to me.

Thomas felt an intense claustrophobia grip at him as they drove through the city. The buildings were tall, shining in the daylight, and he felt the same strange vertigo as when he had first stood near the massive stone walls of the Maze. It was crowded, too, with thousands of people bustling about the streets. Many of them wore surgical masks.

What worried Thomas most were the officers stationed every few blocks, their uniforms dark and their faces clad in the same masks that Butch’s men wore. He didn’t doubt that these were the police tasked with finding those infected with the Flare and removing them.

He cast a glance at Minho. The Asian boy had made good on his promise to fall asleep and was currently leaning against Newt and drooling on his shoulder. Newt didn't seem to mind, because he was drooling on Minho's hair.

As amusing as the sight was, Thomas couldn't shake the question plaguing him. He cleared his throat.

“Do we… do we gotta go through a checkpoint or something?” he said. “With those… what were they, SDUs?”

“FDUs,” Butch said. “Flare detection units. And they do have checkpoints, but we won’t have to worry about that. Miss Vivian’s got us covered.”

"She must be a powerful woman," Teresa said. "If she can put the safety of a city at risk to satisfy her personal whims."

“Not my business,” Butch said. “I wasn’t paid to protect the city.”

“And you’re immune, which helps,” Teresa said with a click of her tongue. “But what about all the people who aren’t?”

“Look,” Butch growled. “We aren’t parading him around the city. We’re driving to one specific place, alright?”

“So you know Minho’s not immune,” Thomas said.

“Didn’t know who had what,” Butch said. “Hence all the masks on my boys. But your buddy there? Classic Stage 2. Only reason I didn’t knock him on his disrespectful ass. Little surprised that you kids are accusing me of endangering people when you didn’t fess up about him, though.”

There was a pause as Thomas weighed his words. He did have a point. Bringing Minho into a population center wasn’t the wisest choice—not only for him, but for others. But they didn’t have other options.

“We didn’t know if you would take him along,” Teresa said. “And besides… you’re the ones who took the risk coming after us. We were in the middle of nowhere, so if he puts anyone in danger, that’s on you.”

Butch let out a laugh. “I like you, kid,” he said. “And you’re right. Miss V’s got it all figured out, though. You don’t gotta worry.”

The car slowed as he finished speaking, and Thomas looked up. They were pulling up next to what looked like a toll booth, but it was manned by one of those men in uniform. As they drew closer, he saw the officer’s patch, the letters FDU a bright white against the dark hue of his shirt.

Thomas’s heart jumped into his throat, but within a second Butch flashed a piece of paper and the officer waved them through, never even giving the teenagers in the back a second glance.

From that point, they steered clear of the city proper, making their way down long, winding backroads that ebbed and flowed with the hills. 

It wasn't long before they pulled up to a wrought iron gate that blocked the driveway of a huge mansion. Most of the building was two stories, but there were some towers that reached up to four. It was brick, and ivy climbed the walls in a way that reminded Thomas of the vines that coated the walls of the Maze.

But he thought it looked more like a Castle than the prison that place was.

A guard opened the gate and waved them in. Gravel crackled beneath the car as they drove up the driveway. Thomas shook Minho and Newt awake. They separated, and started complaining to each other about drool while Thomas chuckled. Butch pulled the car to a stop in front of the mansion, but the two vans passed them, turning off into some outbuilding.

Butch cut the engine and motioned for them to get out. The second he did, a pungent, sweet scent hit Thomas’s nose. It wasn’t a nice odor, and he had to resist the urge to pull the collar of his shirt over his nose.

He glanced around, seeking out its origin, but he didn’t see anything that could be responsible for it.

He didn’t have any time for his curiosity to grow. Butch led them toward the home. They walked up a set of steps to a pair of wide, white doors with stained glass windows. Butch walked in without knocking.

Thomas frowned when they entered.

It wasn’t that the home was in disrepair, but instead of elaborate decor and fine furniture, he was met with a dim entryway and tables and chairs hidden away beneath dusty beige cloths. It wasn't what he expected from a stately manor. 

Butch led them to a sitting room on the right and told them to wait, then left the room, closing the door behind him. Thomas waited for the sound of a lock being engaged, but heard nothing. 

Minho sat on one of the couches and a plume of dust flew into the air, only to settle again when he stilled. "Feels like a shuck museum," he muttered.

"Sure is fancy," Newt said as he swiped a finger over the only uncovered table, leaving a dark streak cutting through the dust. He wrinkled his nose and wiped the finger on his jacket.

Thomas wandered over to a window. It didn't let much light in, being covered by a heavy curtain, but Thomas pushed that aside. He reached for the bottom of the window and pulled up.

It came free, sliding with a squeak. That same strange fragrance without an origin hit him.

"We could make a run for it," he offered to the others, pointing toward the open window.

They seemed to consider it, but before anyone could make a move, a door on the far side of the room creaked open and a woman swept in.

She must’ve been in her 60’s, with gray-white hair in tight curls on top of her head. She wore a pair of horn rimmed glasses and a bright, flowery blouse.

“You’ve just arrived and you already want to leave?” she said with a tut. Her accent was strikingly similar to Newt’s, though she enunciated her words more. The woman sat down on the couch across from Minho, so gently that no dust rose. “I suppose I can’t stop you, but really, how far do you think you will make it with no money? And those bloodstained clothes are bound to attract attention.”

None of them responded, looking from the woman to each other and back again. She spoke with an air of cheer and decorum, as if they were guests at a social brunch. As if they _weren’t_ escorted there by a group of armed mercenaries.

“You’re Vivian Gold?” Newt said.

“Indeed I am. And you’re Newt,” she pointed to each of them in turn as she named them. “Thomas, Minho, and this lovely young lady is Teresa. You may call me Miss Vivian. Please, if you’re quite done plotting your escape—and I’d much rather you use the door, dears—then close that window and have a seat. It creates a terrible draft.”

Thomas closed it like she asked but not without a frown. Whoever this lady was, WICKED or not, she was a character.

She waited for them patiently, her legs crossed at the ankle and her knees held together, hands resting clasped upon them. Eventually, they all shuffled over and took seats on the couch next to Minho.

“That’s better. Now, I’m sure you have so many questions—as do I—but I imagine you must be so exhausted from your journey. I apologize for how long it took my men to find you, but hacking WICKED codes is not as easy as it once was. Do you take sugar in your tea?”

“I… what?” Teresa said. The woman talked a mile a minute, jumping from subject to subject without any logical transition. 

“Your tea, dear,” she said, the pleasant smile never leaving her face. “Oh, I do suppose you wouldn’t rightly know.”

She looked back toward the open door.

“Jasper!” she called, barely raising her voice and yet making it ring out clearly. “Bring the tea set and a plate of biscuits, please.”

She looked back to them and frowned at Minho.

"What happened to your arm, boy?" she said, then continued, once again, without letting anyone answer. "Goodness, you lot really do get up to shenanigans, don't you?"

"I... I was mauled by a wolf," Minho muttered, a look somewhere between offense and confusion on his face. Miss Vivian didn't seem to hear him, however, and went on talking.

"Regardless, I'll have Ronald look at that once he's home. Now then, that's enough pleasantries," she said. "I suppose Butch didn't tell you much, did he? That man is amazing at his job, but words are not his strong suit. My, I remember one time just following the sun flares, and I hired him to—“

"No, he didn't tell us much," Thomas said. He felt rude cutting her off like that, but he knew that they would never get anywhere if he allowed her to go on. "He said that you wanted to take WICKED down."

"Which is klunk," Minho said. "I think you're working with WICKED."

Miss Vivian pursed her lips.

"Both are true, in a round about way."

"Wait, what?" Thomas said. He almost stood, but managed to rein himself in. On the whole ride over, a part of him really hoped that she might be an ally against WICKED, and that, for once, they could be safe, if only for a little while.

Miss Vivian began to answer, but the appearance of a man in the doorway cut her short. He was wearing a tuxedo and carrying a tray with a teapot, cups, and a large plate of cookies.

“Ah, Jasper, thank you very much,” Mis Vivian said as the butler set the tray on the table between them—the uncovered one that Newt had swiped a line of dust from. “Be a dear and go prepare the guest rooms? And a change of clothes and some sandwiches, too. They’ve been through so much.”

“We’re not staying,” Thomas said. Miss Vivian eyed him curiously.

“You’ll want to hear me out before you make any rash decisions,” she said. “Jasper, prepare the rooms.”

Thomas glared at her as Jasper made his way out of the room. She gestured to the tray on the coffee table.

"Help yourselves. You must be famished and there's no use talking on an empty stomach."

Minho was the first to move, reaching toward the tray and grabbing a handful of cookies, stuffing one into his mouth.

"What?" he mumbled at their curious looks. He chewed and swallowed the sweet. "Look, I'm only here because I got outvoted. I might as well have some cookies."

"They could be drugged," Teresa said.

Minho made an exaggerated show of looking around the room.

"We're sitting in a room with a woman who said she works with WICKED and we know there are like twenty shanks with guns right outside," Minho said. "And your biggest concern is drugged cookies?"

Teresa sent Minho a glare, and Thomas would have too, except he realized that the anger he felt had nothing to do with Minho. He was angry at himself for walking into this, and doing it willingly, despite having every reason to believe it was another trap.

"Good that," Newt mumbled, grabbing a cookie out of Minho's hand.

"Lovely," the woman said she grabbed the teapot. "Milk and sugar?"

"Milk and one," Newt said. Once each of them, Thomas included, had a cup of tea in their hands and the plate of cookies was half gone, Miss Vivian continued.

"I understand that you must be inclined to be cautious," she said. "And by my own admission, I did work with WICKED. That said, I no longer do.

“Perhaps a bit of history is in order. You see, WICKED was an organization created as the joint effort of many independent governments across the world to combat the Flare. Nothing creates world peace like the threat of total annihilation. However, much of WICKED’s financial contributions came from private sources. Wealthy individuals like myself, who believed that WICKED was our best chance at finding a cure.”

“So you gave them money?” Teresa said. “Did you know what they were doing?”

Miss Vivian hesitated. "I had an idea, though the details of their experiments were always shielded from anyone not directly involved," she stirred her tea with a spoon and took a sip. "It wasn't until several months ago that information—truly dreadful reports—started to be leaked. I do not know who the source was, but myself and several other investors and interested parties were contacted with files that detailed some of WICKED's activities with the subjects."

"Us," Minho said. "We're not subjects."

"You're quite right, dear," she said. "Children, few of whom had anyone left to care about their well being, or about what WICKED was doing to them."

"So you heard about the shucked up stuff they're doing and stopped sending them money," Thomas said. "But... why all this? Why keep tabs and track us down?"

"I am immune," Miss Vivian said. "My husband is as well. WICKED and their cure can't help us. But my daughter was not immune. Neither was her son.”

Thomas saw a sadness pass over the woman’s eyes, and one of her hands left the teacup, rising to her chest to rest over a tarnished golden locket. 

“I worried for him. The communicability of this disease is like nothing the world has ever seen. Even if we locked him away from the world, there was always the threat of infection taking him away from us,” she said. “WICKED was interested in the genetic potential of immunity. They offered us a proposal.”

"A proposal?"

"She handed her grandson over to WICKED," Newt said, his expression blank and unreadable.

"To save his life," Miss Vivian said, though Thomas saw shame and guilt join the sadness in her eyes. "I couldn't keep him safe here, and locking him away would be no life to live. WICKED said that they could keep him safe, protected from infection. And they promised he would be among the first to receive the cure when it was completed."

"That doesn't answer my question," Thomas said. "Why turn against WICKED now? Is it for revenge?"

"No, child," she said. "It's out of hope. I am hoping that my grandson is still alive."

They were quiet for a moment. Thomas took in the new information. Even though the idea of this woman passing her grandchild off to WICKED was deplorable, he could almost understand her motivations. The thought of losing one of the last people you had left... Thomas could relate.

He didn't want to be the one to break it to the woman that none of the boys left weren't immune, except for Minho.

"Not many of us survived the Maze" Newt said, and the way his throat bobbed as he swallowed told Thomas that his thoughts were in the same vein. "Fewer survived the Scorch."

"How many, if I may ask?" she said. "My... my information is spotty, at best. It was only recently that we were able to access a WICKED facility, and their files were woefully incomplete. I know that there were more of you who escaped at the lab on Mt. Rainier, but my men were only able to access the tracking system while you four were in range."

"We had around 70 all told," Newt said. "There's ten of us now."

She looked crestfallen.

“I have… I have pictures,” she said. “They’re old, but, if I showed you, could you tell me? Even if he’s not… I want to know.”

“I knew everyone who came through that place,” Newt said with a nod. “I can tell you as much as I know.”

“Good,” she said. “We would have to wait for Ronald. We must find out together. And regardless of the… odds, he is not my only motivation. I want to set as much as I can right. I want to make up for the part I played in WICKED’s actions.”

“You can’t,” Minho said. His words lacked his usual bite.

If Miss Vivian was offended, she didn’t show it.

“Perhaps I can’t, but I can try, and I can work to give you, and the rest of those who escaped, lives free from WICKED.”

* * *

Miss Vivian had been right to prepare the rooms. Following their discussion, she left the four of them alone to decide what to do next. Their decision to stay was unanimous, even Minho deciding that the prospect of a bed and real food was worth the risk.

Jasper had prepared four rooms, each with stately king sized beds and adjoining bathrooms. However, they all clustered into a single room, one with a set of wide doors that led to a balcony and let in the faint, cloud filtered sunlight. They ignored Jasper’s incredulous looks as they dragged one of the other mattresses in and let it fall to the floor. Nothing good ever happened when they were separated.

The butler brought them sandwiches and sodas. Thomas was halfway through a can before he really tasted it, and the tiny bubbles triggered more of those almost-memories, where he could remember the things, but not the people or the circumstances.

“What shucking information could soda give them?” Minho said when Newt raised the prospect of this being another WICKED test.

“Happiness?” Newt said, grabbing another sandwich and digging in, the rest of his words muffled by the food in his mouth. “We didn’t get bloody much of that in the Glade.”

"Speak for yourself," Minho said, elbowing Newt. "I had a grand time runnin' for hours on shucking hours."

"As fun as this is," Teresa said. The whole time the boys were downing sandwiches and sodas, laughing and enjoying what little good fortune they have been afforded, Teresa had been contemplatively eating, staring off into space. "Should we talk about what we're going to do?"

"What can we do?" Minho said. He seemed to have have forgotten his previous irritation over being prodded into coming. Apparently, a plentiful supply of food was what was needed to keep Minho happy.

"Stop keeping secrets, for one," Teresa said. She looked pointedly at Thomas as she said it.

He set down his can of soda on the floor. The guest room lacked any tables—lacked any furniture except for the bed, but at least that wasn't covered in dust.

"What secrets?"

Teresa reached into the makeshift pack she had been carrying and pulled out the stack of files, throwing them between the four of them.

"When were you going to mention that you read these?" she demanded, then her gaze shifted to Newt. "I thought you would have told Minho at least."

His friend's eyes snapped to Newt, then to Teresa.

"What are you talking about?" he asked Teresa. She shuffled through the stack of folders, and Thomas knew which one she was looking for. When she found Gally's, she handed it to Minho. The Runner took it slowly, setting down his own food. He glanced at them again and flicked it open.

Thomas watched his frown deepen as he kept reading, lips moving silently with the words. As he finished, he looked up at Thomas and Newt, a confused and, unless Thomas was mistaken, hurt expression on his face.

“Did you read this?” he asked. Their silence was all the answer he needed. “Why wouldn’t you tell me?”

“I… well,” Newt said setting his half eaten sandwich back on the plate and rubbing the back of his neck. “It didn’t seem like the right time?”

“Didn’t seem like the right time?” Minho said, his voice taking on an angry tone. He tossed the folder back into the stack. “Shuck you both.”

 _Was that really necessary?_ Thomas thought, reaching out to Teresa.

 _You weren't telling him,_ _Tom_ , she said. _He deserves to know._

Thomas tried to send his best glare her way, but she wasn't even looking at him. He didn’t _want_ to keep this from Minho, but they, and especially their leader, had too many other things to worry about.

"It's not that we didn't want to say anything," Thomas said, jumping in since Newt's efforts at explaining the situation seemed to be getting them nowhere. "We just didn't know what it meant. I mean, even with the dream I had, I don't--"

"Dream?" Minho said. He shook his head. "OK, this is whacked. We're supposed to be in this together—all of us, even Teresa."

"Gee, thanks," Teresa said, casting Minho a sickly sweet smile.

"Point is, this needs to shucking stop. No more secrets," he said, then pointed at Thomas. "Starting with you."

Thomas sighed. He stood up, pacing as he recounted his dream. He told them about the meeting and the deliberation about Gally. Then he told them about WICKED’s plans for Minho.

“But they never tried anything’,” Newt said. “You never got stung.”

“I never got stung,” Minho said. His uninjured hand had been balled into a fist for most of Thomas’s speech, though he didn’t know if the anger was directed at him, WICKED, or both. “But that wasn’t for lack of trying.”

Thomas frowned in confusion, and then it dawned on him.

“Alby,” he said. “They stung Alby on accident.”

Minho nodded. “More than three freakin’ years I ran that Maze and I never saw any Griever acting like that,” he said. “Dunno why they waited for the next day, though. Coulda had me stung when I first found it.”

“They wanted to make sure you’d make it back,” Teresa said. “The sting… it messes you up something awful, right? They wanted to make sure you’d make it back for the serum. A big, weird thing like that, they knew you’d tell someone and he’d go back out with you.”

Minho let out a laugh. “That’s freakin’ priceless,” he said. “I coulda been the one to go up and poke that Griever and I’d be all—what’d it say, ‘modified’?—been all shuckin’ modified like Gally. Real great time I woulda had with that. Wouldn’t be dealing with… all this now I guess.”

“Doesn’t mean it’s a cure, Min,” Newt said, his voice quiet. “We don’t know what it means, even with Tommy’s dream.”

“It definitely means they were on to something,” Teresa said. “If we were pushing for this as hard as you said, Tom, then we at least thought it was important.”

“Yeah, well… it doesn’t really matter now anyhow,” Minho mumbled. 

“Sorry for not telling you, alright?” Thomas said. Minho nodded, but he didn’t say anything or look at Thomas, so he went on. “Sorry for not telling any of you about the dream. I guess we can’t be keeping anything to ourselves. But from now on, it’s all out in the open. Is that it, or does anyone else have something?”

Teresa shook her head, but Newt and Minho glanced at each other, keeping eye contact for just too long for Thomas to ignore.

“Seriously?” he said and watched as his friends winced at being found out. On one hand, he didn’t want to extend sharing time, and the thought of his friends keeping things from him hurt—hypocritical, maybe, but true. On the other hand, he was glad that he wasn’t the only one hiding something. “Out with it.”

“Tommy,” Newt said. “I can promise you, it’s not really relevant.”

Thomas was about to respond, but Minho beat him to it.

“Oh really?” the Asian boy said. “Thanks for finally letting me know where you stand.”

Newt floundered for a moment, opening and closing his mouth without sound. But after a second, he shook his head and looked Minho in the eye.

“That’s not how I meant it,” he said. “You _know_ that’s not how I meant it.”

Minho ignored him, giving a rueful smile. “I mean, I guess that explains the last four shucking weeks,” he said. “Can’t say it’s been right ever since—”

“You can’t pin that on me!” Newt said. Thomas glanced at Teresa, hoping that she could shed some light on what this was all about. But, perched on the bed, she seemed just as perplexed as he was, casting glances at their friends, who had both risen and were now standing and facing each other down.

“That was all your choice,” Newt said. “Going on watch with Jorge, trying to… to… you won’t even let me buggin’ touch you unless you’re bleedin’ to death or out of your wits!”

“Yeah, because you’ve been so keen on that lately.”

“There’s been other things to worry about,” Newt said, and started ticking off on his fingers as he listed things. “The bloody shut down of the Maze, bein’ locked in a room with no food, the Scorch, Tommy’s bein’ shot, Tommy bein’ kidnapped, the shuckin’ simulations, escaping, the buggin’—”

“So?” Minho said, his lips twisting into a sneer. “That’s no excuse.”

“There’ve been more important things happening!”

All at once Minho’s posture changed. His fist unclenched and his shoulders relaxed. The sneer left his face, replaced with an icy blankness. It was like he collapsed in on himself.

“You know what? You’re right. It isn’t relevant,” he said. His voice lost its sharp edge, but even then, Thomas could see the words cut through Newt like a razor. Minho turned his back on the blond. “It hasn’t been in a long time.”


	13. The Butler in the Kitchen with the Cornish Game Hen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “We must admit there will be music despite everything.” ― Jack Gilbert

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heads up, this is another chapter where I've elected to use the film's version of events. Rather, I've sort of blended them, all regarding Ben. Just note that I'm taking the film's idea of him as a Runner (makes more sense for him to have been stung) and the banishment scene (and if you haven't seen the deleted scene with Minho, watch it. It's heartbreaking and where I get the headcanon that he and Ben were good friends). Everything else (being stung before Thomas's arrival, the arrow, etc.) is in line with the book.

Minho closed the door behind him with a gentle click, nothing close to the slam that Thomas would have expected from the fiery Runner. Thomas glanced at Newt and immediately felt as if he had intruded on something private.

“Um…” he said, struggling to find something to say. With his words breaking the tense silence, Newt moved, sitting heavily on the bed. His shoulders slumped, but his eyes didn’t leave the door, his face completely devoid of emotion.

“What… what just happened?” Thomas tried again. At least he formed intelligible words this time.

No one responded. 

“What was that?” Thomas repeated. “Newt?”

“What did it bloody look like?” Newt growled, tearing his eyes away from the door to glare at Thomas. Thomas was taken aback at the sudden shift in the boy’s emotions.

“I don’t know,” Thomas said. “That’s why I’m asking.”

“I just got dumped by that dumb shank!” Newt said. He continued to glare at Thomas for a second before putting the heels of his hands against his forehead and falling back on the bed with a groan.

“Oh,” Thomas said, then frowned. “Wait, dumped?”

Teresa moved to sit next to Newt, putting a hand on his shoulder. She shot Thomas a glare, and suddenly he understood.

“Oh!” he said, and he was sure that the look on his face would have been comical in any other situation. “Oh.”

“Maybe Thomas could go talk to Minho,” Teresa said. She was speaking to Newt, but the statement was clearly aimed at him. Thomas watched the way that her hand rubbed circles on Newt’s shoulder and he wanted to kick himself for all that energy wasted being jealous over them.

“I’ll do that,” Thomas said. He hadn’t the faintest clue what to say to Minho, or even where the Runner would have gone, but he knew that he owed it to them to try. He ducked out of the room, Teresa’s quiet murmurs of comfort cut off by the door.

Minho was nowhere in sight. Not that Thomas expected him to be—if it was him, he would have booked it as far as possible by now. The hallway was large, twelve feet across and lined with paneled walls. Their door was one of many, and between all of them were works of art, paintings, or tapestries or vases on pedestals. 

He headed for the staircase, a large, grand, sweeping thing that had banisters of solid wood and a rich red and gold carpet on the stairs themselves.

As he walked, he tried to think of what to say. He hadn’t even known that they were a thing. He could’ve guessed that some of the guys in the Glade would have gotten together, but he didn’t expect Minho and Newt. Then again… hadn’t he compared them to Teresa and himself just days ago? His feelings toward her were confusing, but he knew they were more the friendly. His two friends worked in tandem so well, sharing looks that communicated so much, something that Thomas knew could only come from a practiced, intimate familiarity.

Plus, they argued like an old married couple.

He reached the bottom of the stairs, which came out in the main entryway of the mansion, which they had been led through by Butch hours earlier. He looked around, but didn’t see Minho anywhere.

He didn’t feel comfortable wandering around this woman’s home, even if she told them they were welcome anywhere. He heard the clatter of dishes through an open doorway and went to check it out.

The kitchen was probably the cleanest and most well put together room in the place. The tiles on the floor were bright white marble and matched the counter tops. The cupboards were light oak and the appliances were all stainless steel, shined to perfection.

In the middle of the kitchen was a large island. On it, Jasper the butler was putting a bunch of tiny chickens into a roasting pan. He had removed his tuxedo jacket and pushed the sleeves of his white shirt up to his elbows. He wore a plain apron that would have been white had it not been smeared and stained with a variety of substances.

Jasper looked up when Thomas’s sneakers squeaked against the floor. It occurred to Thomas that he had never actually heard the man talk.

He didn’t smile or greet Thomas, only returned to tying the legs of a chicken with twine.

Thomas didn’t know much about upper class living, but he was fairly certain (and his fuzzy, unspecific memories rarely misled him) that butlers didn’t play the role of cook as well. In fact, he hadn’t seen any other employees wandering around the house. Maybe Jasper was the only one, and that was why so much of the house wasn’t being cleaned regularly.

“If you are looking for your angry friend,” Jasper said. His voice was deep and plain. “He stormed out into the garden.”

“Thanks,” Thomas muttered, then popped out of the kitchen. He paused, and looked around the doorway again. “Uh… the garden is where?”

“Go to the left of the stairs and straight into the music room. Those glass doors lead to the courtyard, and then you should see the garden.”

Thomas thanked him again and followed the directions. Past the stairs was another hallway lined with closed doors, but at the end he could see a large, airy room. The wall opposite him was nothing but glass, windows and a set of double doors.

The central focus of the music room was a baby grand piano. It was a rich, glossy cherry wood and the top was propped up, revealing the hammers and strings inside. Thomas felt a tingle in his fingers and an urge to run his hands along the keys. He frowned. Did he know how to play, in his life before? Was it something his brain would remember how to do, like he remembered nonspecific things about life, or was it lost to him now?

He didn’t allow himself to dwell on it, sticking his hands into his pockets as he walked past the piano to the doors.

The weather was finer here than it had been in the forest. It was still humid and gray clouds hung threateningly overhead, just waiting to rain down at the least convenient time.

The courtyard was a ruin of what it must have once been. The brickwork that once made beautiful patterns was cracking, bleached by the sun, and spotted with weeds that grew into every crevice they could find. Some lawn furniture was shoved against the side of the house, but the cushions were torn and the wood warped and swollen.

Beyond that was the garden. Or what passed for a garden. Many of the plants were dead, and those that weren’t had taken advantage of their comrades’ misfortune, overgrowing into new spaces and looking completely unkempt.

Heaps of leaves settled around the trunks of bare trees, and Thomas finally identified that sickly sweet smell that intrigued him when they first arrived. There were several fruit trees around the garden, and around each of them, mixed with the leaves, was rotting fruit, fallen and forgotten long ago. 

Between all the trees and bushes and plant laden planters, benches were set, most looking weather beaten. It was on one of these that Minho sat.

He glanced up as Thomas approached and shook his head.

“Go away, Thomas,” he said. He looked about as dejected as when he left, but there was a spark of anger in his eyes that hadn’t been present when he departed.

Thomas pulled his jacket tighter around himself as a gust of wind ripped through the garden, shaking plants and stirring up clouds of leaves. He was grateful that the they were upwind from the rotting fruit. He sat next to Minho, stretching his legs out in front of him and crossing them at the ankle. Another gust blew and he suppressed a shiver, wishing that he had a hat or a thicker jacket. Minho didn’t even look cold, despite wearing only a bloodstained t-shirt. He wondered if Miss Vivian would give them new clothes like she promised. They all needed it, but especially Minho and Newt.

Neither of them said anything, just stared out into the poor excuse for a garden. After a few minutes, Thomas cleared his throat.

“Man, so what’s up with this old lady?” he said. Maybe avoiding the topic at hand entirely would be the best way to eventually talk about it.

Then again, he could just be a coward.

“I mean, she’s supposed to have all this money, right?” he went on. “And everything in the house is just…”

“A mess,” Minho finished “And her shuckin’ butler, dude. I walked by and he was wrist deep in a chicken. Whistlin’.”

“I think he’s the only one who works here,” Thomas said. “Butlers aren’t supposed to do the cooking, are they?”

“Shuck if I know,” Minho grumbled. “I don’t think I was ever rich.”

“Me neither, dude.”

They fell back into silence, but this one was far less awkward than the first. Still, he had to press on, now that the ice was broken.

“So…” he said. “You and Newt?”

Minho nodded his head slowly, looking into a grove of trees where several blackbirds were resting, their feathers shining in the dull light.

“Yeah, me an’ Newt,” he said, kicking at the dirt at their feet.

“How long that been going on? ‘Cause I wouldn’t’ve guessed,” he said. “Never seen you holding hands or anything.”

Minho snorted. “We’re not girls,” he said. “And besides, hasn’t been any freaking time for that, has there?”

“I guess… I mean, I like holding hands and I’m not a girl,” Thomas said. “Last time I checked at least.”

That got a burst of laughter from Minho and Thomas couldn’t keep the smile off his face at his success.

“Might wanna check again, Thomina,” Minho said. Then, his smile faded as quickly as it came.

“Seriously,” Thomas said, elbowing him gently in the ribs. “Is this new, or…?”

“I’m not talkin’ about my love life with you,” Minho said. He paused, his eyes widening as if he just realized exactly what he said. 

“Love, huh?” Thomas said, unable to keep the grin off his face. As much as he felt like a jerk for taking joy in any part of this situation, he refused to not take the opportunity to tease his friend. “C’mon. You’re in too deep. Spill.”

Minho let out a sigh and shrugged, grimacing a little when he moved his right shoulder.

“It’s… we’ve been _us_ for a year I guess. I don’t really know,” he said. “But… after we woke up in the Glade. We were both Runners—the first, in fact—and we used to stay up late in the Map Room after everybody’s gone and talk for hours. That first day, that's when I...”

Minho's voice faded into the breeze.

Thomas let out a whistle. “Shuck, man, that’s a long time.”

And it really was. None of the Gladers had any memories before the Glade. Not anything concrete, at least. Even Thomas’s own were vague and shadowy most of the time, and he’d gone through the Changing. Three years was practically their whole lives.

And to be in love with someone your whole life?

“Did he send you?” Minho asked. Thomas appreciated his friend’s inclination to be blunt.

“Nope. Teresa did,” he said, and that resulted in Minho looking at him for the first time since he sat down. “Newt’s pretty… uh… he’s not happy.”

Minho pressed his lips together and guilt flashed across his eyes as he looked away. Thomas wondered what was going through his friend’s head. Not only the emotional turmoil of the fight, but what it felt like to have the Flare twisting your thoughts. He wanted nothing more than to make that stop for Minho.

“So… like, did you dump him, then?” Thomas asked. “‘Cause it’s none of my business what you do, but I think we need to be on the same page, since we’re all in this together. And he’s pretty convinced that you dumped him.”

Minho didn’t answer, just kept staring out into the trees and scuffing his shoe against the dirty brick pathway.

“I’m dying, Thomas,” he said. “I’m losing my shuck mind.”

“Minho, you’re not… I mean,” he started, but wasn’t sure how to go on, how to argue against what he knew was the truth. “You saw Gally’s file—and I’m sorry we didn’t tell you sooner, I am—but you saw, so there’s a chance—”

“A chance I can go through the freaking changing and maybe— _maybe_ —get better?” he said, shaking his head. “You read it, too, and they don’t say it’s a cure.

“It could be.”

“It’s WICKED,” he said. “Did you forget that, slinthead?”

“Yeah, I know it’s WICKED,” Thomas said. “And they did—are doing—horrible things, but if they have a cure, that’s not—”

“It has nothing to do with that!” Minho said, standing and turning, kicking the bench. It shook and Thomas felt the reverberation in his bones, but it held together. The former Keeper ran his free hand through his hair, fingers twining in the dirty strands and pulling. “I would get it in a shuckin’ heartbeat if I thought it was real, no matter how many shanks died for it.”

When Minho turned his gaze to him, Thomas saw that his eyes were red-rimmed. One of the things that he admired about the older boy was his emotional strength. He never broke down. When Thomas cried after that night in the Maze, Minho only sat there. 

This was the closest he had ever seen his friend to crying.

“I’m scared of dying, more than I’ve ever been of anything, but that shuck cure ain’t real,” he said. “It’s not and I’m dying and… and it would be easier for Newt if he didn’t care so much.”

The words hit and Thomas understood. Minho may have been angry, may have always been feeling some level of anger now, but what he said to Newt, those last words… they weren’t out of anger.

“You’re trying to protect him,” Thomas said.

Minho nodded, taking his place on the bench again and hanging his head.

“You saw after Alby,” Minho said. “Slinthead cares too much. He always did. He doesn’t show it, but he takes all our klunk inside and it sticks to him and I don’t want that.”

“You can’t make him stop caring,” Thomas said. He let out a shaky breath, preparing for what he was about to say. “It doesn’t work that way, trust me.”

Minho glanced at him and Thomas couldn’t hold his gaze. He knew nothing in that simulation was real, but he felt guilty all the same. He was guilty for killing one of his best friends, and he was guilty for his vowing to keep that from his other best friend.

And now, he was about to be guilty for breaking that vow.

“I don’t know what your simulation or dream or whatever the shuck WICKED wants to call it. I don’t know what yours was like, but,” Thomas licked his lips. “There were too many similar things, man. Newt… Newt wasn’t immune and he tried some of the same klunk as you. And you know what happened?”

Minho shook his head, the motion nearly imperceptible. His eyes were on Thomas, locked on his face as he recounted a part of the thing that none of them wanted to revisit. No one talked about it. No one talked about it back in that room in WICKED’s facility. It was clear that not a single one of them wanted to speak about what their simulation was like.

“We didn’t stop caring,” Thomas said. “No matter how much it hurt us, no matter how much he pushed us, we never stopped caring.”

His voice caught in his throat and he knew he was about to chicken out.

“We did everything we could to help him, ’til the end,” Thomas said. He closed his eyes, trying to wish away the tears that he could feel forming. “And… and then we…”

Thomas didn’t open his eyes until he felt Minho’s hand on his shoulder. He glanced at the Runner and knew that he couldn’t keep it to a half-truth. He couldn’t leave it unsaid.

“I did it. He asked me too, and I… I did it,” he said. “I never… in the… I swore I wouldn’t tell you. I thought you’d hate me. I killed him, Minho. He was begging me to and I just pulled the trigger.”

He realized that his hands were shaking, and clenched them into fists. Finally, he felt several of the tears fall. “I can still feel it.”

Minho’s hand tightened on his shoulder.

“I wouldn’t hate you,” he said. “I killed _Ben_ , Thomas. I dragged him to the doors when he was beggin’ me not to. You think I don’t see that every time I close my eyes? Shuck, if anyone could understand, it’d be me.”

They sat there in silence. Thomas was thankful for the physical contact of Minho’s hand on his shoulder. It was grounding, and soon the tears stopped. He wiped the last of them away with the back of his hand.

“Half… half the time I’m not sure if this is real or I cracked and went crazy.”

“I can understand that, too,” Minho said. “Shuck, Thomas, what am I supposed to do now? Go back in there and what? All those things I said still stand, you know.”

“Going back in would be a start,” Thomas said. “I don’t know anything about what’s going on between you two, but you obviously care, so… make it work.”

“That’s your brilliant advice?” Minho said with a shake of his head. “‘Make it work’?”

“Ain’t that how we’ve managed everything so far?”

“…Good that, Thomas.”

* * *

They left the jungle of the garden behind and Thomas swore he’d never make a career out of giving dating advice, because the whole thing was not his area of expertise.

They didn't make it back to the room immediately. Jasper flagged them down at the bottom of the staircase. He nodded to Thomas and then addressed Minho.

“Master Ronald has arrived home,” the butler said. “And Miss Vivian would like me to invite you to have your arm examined before the Master returns to the clinic. I’ll show you the way to his study.”

Minho glanced at Thomas.

“I’ll come,” Thomas said without hesitation. He didn’t especially want to watch Minho’s arm get treated again—though hopefully it would be far less gruesome this time—but none of them trusted these people yet, and Minho was probably realizing his stupidity in running off alone.

As they walked down the hallway, Thomas reached out for Teresa.

 _How’s Newt?_ he said.

 _Not happy, but he’ll live,_ she responded seconds later. _Did you find Minho?_

_Yeah. We were on our way back when we got stopped by the butler. We’re going to get his arm checked out by the lady’s husband._

He felt the brush of Teresa’s acknowledgment and then her absence. Jasper led them through the mansion, down a wandering hallway, and eventually to the open door of a room that looked like a cross between a doctor’s exam room and an office. Inside, a man sat on a stool, gazing intently at a computer screen.

“Master Ronald, our guests are here,” Jasper said, his voice never losing its monotone. Ronald looked up and nodded.

“Yes, come in, come in,” he said, waving for them to enter as he pressed a button and the computer screen went black. His voice had a pleasant twang that made him sound kind and warm. “Thank you, Jasper. That will be all.”

Thomas followed Minho into the room, taking a seat in a low leather chair while Ronald told Minho to have a seat on a raised examination table.

Ronald Gold was nothing like his skinny waif of a wife. He was heavyset, with a thick middle and two chins. His face was almost free of wrinkles despite his age, and he had thinning gray hair. Perched on the bridge of his nose was a pair of glasses, thick glass and golden frames.

“I take it you’ve met my wife?” the man said as he pulled out a tray of medical supplies. Minho cringed when he saw the array of shining steel implements. “She was quite adamant about findin’ you, you know.”

He fiddled around with a few of the instruments, their bodies scraping sharply against the metal tray.

He looked back to Minho, taking one look at the Asian boy, then frowned. Ronald pulled out a penlight, its beam bright and blue, and shined it in Minho’s eyes. The Runner screwed his eyes up tight at the sudden brightness.

“Are you infected, son?” he said. The question was spoke with no accusation or malice, only simple curiosity.

“I… yeah,” Minho said, cracking his eyes open and then shutting them again when he saw that the light was still there “Can you stop with the light?”

“Ah, of course,” Ronald said. He clicked off the flashlight and slipped it back into his pocket. “My apologies, young man.”

Minho opened his eyes, reacquainting himself to sight.

“How can you tell?” Thomas asked. “He’s not very far yet.”

“When you have worked with the afflicted as long as I have,” Ronald said. “You learn the earliest signs. In this case, the very tiny discolorations that become visible in the pupil.”

Minho scrunched up his face and Thomas knew that he would spend his next time in front of a mirror looking for these ‘discolorations.’

“If it please ya, I’m gonna untie your sling now,” Ronald said, and then he untied the rough, handcrafted sling. Minho winced as his arm fell free and Ronald caught it. He examined the wrappings, mumbling a few things Thomas couldn’t make out.

“When did this happen?” he asked. He unfastened the hooks that kept the elastic in place and it started to unwind. Ronald unwound it carefully, rolling the bandage as he went.

“Two days ago,” Minho said. He was frowning, though Thomas didn’t know if it was from pain or something else.

“And it was an animal attack, correct?” Ronald said as he finished unrolling the elastic. Thomas grimaced as he saw some of the nasty cuts exposed where the gauze had come away.

Though he found the whole thing terribly gruesome, he couldn’t help looking. A part of him was fascinated and wanted to learn more. After seeing Newt work, Thomas knew that he was seriously lacking in first aid skills, something that could prove to be life or death.

“A wolf,” Minho said. Ronald paused and looked at him.

“If this is all you got from a wolf attack, then you’re awful lucky, son,” Ronald said. “There’s been quite the resurgence in their population ever since the solar flares. Fewer people destroying their habitat, you see.”

Ronald peeled away squares of gauze and Thomas was relieved that most of them still appeared dry. Only a few streaks of blood appeared on the man’s bright blue gloves. Once the gauze was completely removed, the doctor examined Minho’s arm, turning it this way and that. Minho winced as his arm was stretched into strange positions, pulling at the sewn skin.

“Were you the one who did this?” Ronald said, glancing at Thomas over the top of his glasses.

He shook his head. “No, it was Newt.”

Ronald nodded.

“Not a terrible job. A little rough. It’ll scar something awful, but I don’t see anything I will have to rework unless there’s internal damage,” he said, then looked up at Minho. “This Newt probably spared you infection.”

Minho glanced to the side, guilt flashing through his eyes again. If Ronald noticed anything amiss, he didn’t say. He grabbed a bottle and a small steel tub, and poured some brown liquid over the arm, patting it dry after he was finished.

"Before I bandage it, I would like to run some tests to check for nerve and muscle damage," he said. He pulled a long, skinny needle from the table. "Could you please hold your palm flat?”

Minho did as he was asked, casting a nervous glance at Thomas. He winced and pulled his hand back when Ronald pricked his index finger with the needle.

"That's good," Ronald said. "I'm sorry that it's painful, but that means that you don't have any nerve damage. I need to check the rest of your fingers as they are connected to different nerves."

"And there's no shucking better way?" Minho muttered, but presented his hand. Ronald pricked his middle finger, then the others and finally his thumb. Minho winced and his hand jerked with each touch of the needle, but he didn't pull away.

"Very good," Ronald said with a smile. Then he had Minho pull on his thumb and try to push against his hand. "Well then, I don't believe you will have much to worry about aside from scarring. You really are quite lucky that the wounds seem to be mostly superficial. I would prefer it if you could come down to the clinic so I can give it a more thorough examination, however.”

Minho shook his head. “I’ll take my chances.”

“Very well,” Ronald said, though he looked like he thought it was the stupid course of action. He went to a cupboard and pulled out a small can and proceeded to spray something over Minho's arm. The scent reminded Thomas of the alcohol Newt had used in the drug store, but lighter. He waited for it to dry, then placed new gauze over the wound and wrapped it in a fresh bandage.

"I don't think you need a sling since you are no longer runnin' around a forest," he said. "But I can pick one up for you from my clinic, if you would prefer."

Minho shook his head and hopped off the bench.

“Thank you,” Minho said with a glance at Ronald. The words rolled out of his mouth awkwardly, like he was unused to saying them. He probably was. Politeness didn’t have much of a place in the Glade, especially for Minho. Thomas was already at the door when Minho started toward it.

"Actually, son, if I could speak to you confidentially for a moment," Ronald said. He must have noticed the tense look that passed between Minho and Thomas, because he continued, his words now aimed at Thomas. "You may wait just outside, of course. I only need to speak to him about caring for it."

Thomas didn't see why he couldn't hear about that, but he relented when Minho gave him a little nod, and walked out, closing the door behind him.


	14. Three People with Beautiful Hair (and Thomas)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I live for coincidences. They briefly give to me the illusion or the hope that there's a pattern to my life, and if there's a pattern, then maybe I'm moving toward some kind of destiny where it's all explained.” ― Jonathan Ames, My Less Than Secret Life: A Diary, Fiction, Essays

Thomas tapped his foot, keeping a beat against the hardwood floor. It wasn’t anything he recognized, but some unconscious part of his mind knew it.

Opposite him, the closed door of Ronald’s office refused to budge. Thomas bit his lip and crossed his arms over his chest to keep himself from crossing the hallway and knocking. He knew that it felt like more time had passed than actually had, but, after everything, simply having the others out of his sight set Thomas’s nerves on edge. 

He was ten seconds away from marching up to the door when Minho emerged.

He looked a little paler than when they’d gone in and was holding a plastic bag in his good hand. 

“You OK?” Thomas asked. He gestured to the bag.

“Bandages” Minho muttered. “And painkillers and antibiotics. He wanted to give me instructions, ya know.”

“Right,” Thomas said. He suspected that Minho wasn’t giving him the entire truth, but he didn’t want to pry because he figured that the entire truth involved the Flare. Even if they promised no secrets, that wasn’t a topic to probe right now.

“Let’s get back,” Thomas said. Minho didn’t look enthused about the prospect, but he took the lead and started down the hallway, Thomas on his heels.

He hoped that they were headed the right way. Minho didn’t show any signs of confusion, so he followed his lead. They walked in silence, the only sound their footsteps and the rustle of the bag swinging in Minho’s hand. 

For the longest time, Thomas thought that his ability to navigate the Maze was based upon his own innate sense of direction. But his time out in the real world was starting to disprove that theory. The Scorch, a vast wasteland of nothingness, was one thing, but he had been as confused as anything in the tunnels with Brenda. And now, he very well could have been lost in the mansion if Minho wasn’t there.

No, his ability to navigate the Maze was based on one thing and one thing alone: The fact that he had helped build it.

Lost in his thoughts, Thomas didn’t notice that Minho had stopped in front of him, and sidestepped at the last second, almost tripping over his own two feet.

“Hey!” he said. “What the—” 

“Tell me I ain’t seein’ things,” Minho said, his voice barely above a whisper. He lifted his hand and pointed at a framed picture on the wall.

Thomas glanced at it. The photograph was of Ronald and Vivian, with a tall woman and a boy who must have been their grandson. He didn’t see what was so special for a few seconds, but his eyes went wide when he realized.

He leaned in for a closer look.

The boy was younger, eight or nine, and his nose was considerably smaller, but Ronald and Vivian’s grandson was without a doubt Gally.

“Freakin’ shuck,” Minho said under his breath. He turned to Thomas and spoke louder, his voice still hushed in the quiet mansion. “Klunk, Thomas, their grandkid’s shucking Captain Gally.”

Thomas nodded, more out of reflex than anything. His eyes darted around the photograph, and to the handful of others that decorated this section of wall. There was one of a young man and woman in wedding attire, another of a little girl, and yet another of the tall woman holding a bundled baby.

Gally. Gally, who hated Thomas from the second he woke up in the Glade. Gally, who killed Chuck when the younger boy stepped in front of the knife meant for Thomas.

Gally, whose face he had beat to a pulp.

“We gotta tell the others,” Minho said. Thomas felt a tug on his jacket sleeve, and finally tore his eyes away from the photographs. Minho looked as freaked out as Thomas felt, and pulled on his sleeve again. “C’mon, man.”

They walked a lot faster the rest of the way. When they reached what Thomas assumed was their door, Minho paused. He made a move to grab the handle, but his arm stopped halfway there, like it was being repelled by some invisible force. The look on his face was somewhere between doubt, guilt, and nausea.

“It’ll be fine,” Thomas said, remembering that Minho had more on his mind than Gally. “You’ve cooled off, he’s cooled off, you guys’ll be fine.”

Minho gave him a glare, but there was no effort behind it. He glanced back and forth between the door and Thomas before lowering his arm and stepping back.

“Thomas,” he said, his voice pitched low, like he didn’t want to be overheard. He frowned and kept his eyes locked on the closed door. “Before we go in there… Look, you gotta see this for what it is.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I’m not walkin’ out of this in one piece. This whole shuckin’ thing, I mean,” he said, fixing his eyes on Thomas and putting on a forced grin. “Might not make it outta a talk with Newt in one piece, either, but that’s another problem.”

Thomas didn’t laugh, and Minho seemed to realize that his poor attempt at humor wasn’t helping, because he dropped the grin and cleared his throat.

Minho drew in a long breath. “Look, dude… you gotta make me a promise,” he said. “You gotta look me in the eyes and swear that you’ll do something for me.”

A nervous flutter went through Thomas’s chest. He felt bile rise in the back of his throat as flashes of an all too similar, if fabricated, situation went through his mind. Then, the truth of the weight of his promise had been sealed away inside an envelope, and Thomas had almost failed to carry it out.

He didn’t know if he was capable of keeping this promise, if Minho’s request was the same.

Still, he swallowed down the worry and nodded his head.

“There’s gonna be a time,” Minho said. “When I can’t be leader anymore. When I ain’t me. Hey, look at me.”

Thomas didn’t realize that his eyes had drifted away, but he snapped his gaze back to Minho, focusing on his eyes, which were, between the shadows of the hallway and the weight of their plight, so dark that they looked almost black.

“Newt,” Minho said, speaking the name as if it explained everything. “Newt. You gotta promise me—swear—that you won’t leave him alone.”

“Of course,” Thomas said, almost relieved that Minho’s demand was far less frightening a prospect that he feared. “Of course I won’t—”

“No,” the Runner said. “Not for a _second_. You don’t understand. He… he can’t be… If he’s alone, he might… You can’t leave him alone for a _second_.”

Thomas frowned. Minho was never one for words (Thomas would never forget his inspiring speech before they escaped the Maze), but now he was stumbling around them, like he was hiding something.

About Newt. They had an agreement, earlier: No secrets. But this was something else, something that Minho refused to say. Something about Newt. Something about—

Thomas’s mind flashed back to their conversation before separating from Brenda and Jorge, when Newt had grabbed Minho by the shirt and looked like he was two seconds away from punching him.

All because Minho had asked if Newt ever told Thomas how he got… His limp.

WICKED had woven a masterful replica of reality. He’d wondered before how much of it had been based in truth, and one thing, at least, had: Immunity. Could they have used other partial truths as well, used actual information to test Thomas?

He grabbed Minho’s shoulder and locked their eyes together.

“I know,” he said. Regardless of if his suspicions were right or if he was misreading everything, he was going to make this promise. It didn’t matter why Minho wanted this, only that he did, and that Thomas would carry it out. “I swear.”

Minho looked at him for a long time, like he was trying to find a shred of mistruth or weakness in his eyes. But after a while, he looked away, stepping back and letting Thomas’s hand fall from his shoulder.

“Good,” Minho said. He paused in front of the doorway again, and with one final glance at Thomas, he opened the door.

Teresa and Newt looked up at them as they entered. Newt was sitting on the bed, his blond hair damp, wearing new clothes, his t-shirt boasting an advertisement for Shelly’s Shellfish Shack. Teresa was on the floor, also wearing a new outfit of a skirt and a beaded top that made her look like something out of an old movie. She was propped up against the bed, her back to Newt. And he was… braiding her hair. Her long, dark hair was separated into two equal halves, and one side was already done, tied into an impeccable braid.

Teresa smiled as they paused in the doorway, but Newt froze like a deer in the headlights. There was a pause as the blond looked between Thomas and Minho.

Then, Minho laughed. He laughed so hard that he doubled over and dropped the bag on the floor. Even Thomas laughed, the sight—and Minho’s reaction—too comical not to.

Newt blushed, but he rolled his eyes and went back to braiding Teresa’s hair. In a few moments, he was finished and Minho was wiping his eyes and breathing heavily.

“Shuck,” the Runner said, his voice vibrating like he would burst out laughing again at any second. “I, uh… Shuck.”

All at once, he seemed to remember that he and Newt had a fight, because he sobered up pretty quickly after that. Teresa stood up, her skirt flowing around her.

“Jasper brought clothes,” she said, pointing to a cardboard box overflowing with fabric. “But I took the last skirt, so you snooze you lose.”

“Well how’m I suppose to show up to dinner without a proper outfit?” Minho said. The joke had no energy behind it, however, and he and Thomas shared an anxious glance. Thomas opened his mouth to speak, but Minho cut him off.

“So, look…” he said, eyes darting from Newt to Teresa and then to the floor. “We got ourselves another problem.”

“What?” Teresa said. “Did something happen when you were getting your arm—”

“No,” Minho said. “It’s not a problem with the old folks. It’s… Well, it’s shuckin' Gally.”

“What… What do you mean Gally?” Newt said. “Are you still mad about Tommy an’ me not tellin’ you?”

“No, it’s not that,” Minho said, letting out a frustrated sigh. “It’s _him_. He’s their grandson.”

“We saw a picture,” Thomas explained. “Family photos. They’re old, but the kid in them? It’s Gally.”

There was a pause as Teresa and Newt took in theirs words. At length, Newt spoke up.

"We should tell them," he said, his quiet words breaking through everyone’s thoughts.

"Tell them their grandkid's a shucking psycho?" Minho said with a scoff. "How's that conversation gonna work out? 'Hey, thanks for your hospitality, by the way your grandson was a complete shuckface and Thomas here bashed his face in after he killed Chuck.' No way, shank."

"They deserve to know," Newt said, glaring at Minho. Since returning to the room, it felt like the tension between them had waned, but now it was returning and Thomas wondered if he'd have another explosion to deal with.

"We don't owe them _klunk_ ," Minho said. “Do you really think these people’ll take kindly to anything we got to say about that Griever suckin’ traitor?”

Newt stood up and started to argue, but Minho just shook his head.

“You know what?” he said, snatching up the bag from the floor and walking over to the box of clothes. He cast a look at Newt before turning and pointing at Thomas. “As leader, I am delegating to you to figure this out while I get five days worth of grease out of my hair.”

Before Thomas could protest, Minho disappeared into the bathroom.

Thomas looked back to Teresa and Newt. The blond bit his lip, but pulled his eyes away from the closed bathroom door when the water turned on. He sat down heavily on the mattress on the floor and glanced at Thomas and Teresa.

"Am I wrong?" he said. "They have a bloody right to know. If I... if my family was... they should know."

Thomas wasn't sure. On one hand, he got what Newt was saying. On the other, he didn't know what telling them would achieve. It wasn't like any of them had many nice things to say about Gally.

"They do deserve to know," Teresa said. "They deserve a chance to see him again."

Thomas frowned, then glanced at her.

"What do you mean?"

"His folder," she said, raising her eyebrows in the way that she did whenever anyone was missing something obvious.

"Yeah, I read it," Thomas said. "So what?"

"You read Alby and Chuck's too, yeah?" she said. "They were marked as deceased, Tom. Gally wasn't. All it said was 'status undetermined.’”

"...shuck."

"Yeah, shuck," Newt mumbled.

“Boys can be so dense,” Teresa muttered under her breath. Considering the situation… Thomas didn’t think her statement warranted correction. 

They lapsed into silence, each one considering the weight of what was before them. Thomas didn’t know what to think, if it would be better to come clean with the Golds and risk putting themselves in a worse position, or to lie. He didn’t trust them yet, but he wanted so badly to believe that they were good, kind people.

Thomas didn’t know how long they sat there in silence, but the sounds of running water cut off from the bathroom and woke him from his thoughts. A few minutes later Minho emerged, his hair, and the rest of him, looking decidedly cleaner. In fact, it was like the shower had washed away all traces of anger and annoyance, his face was relaxed and his eyes were half lidded. He half walked, half stumbled to the mattress on the floor, flopping down on the side opposite Newt.

“You’re right,” he said, the words light, almost melodic in tone. “We should tell ‘em.”

Newt frowned at Minho, clearly disturbed by this change of attitude. He raised an eyebrow at Thomas, who just shrugged in response.

“We can say—I mean when we tell them—we can say that he was the Keeper of the builders,” Minho said, his words almost slurred, like he was on the verge of sleep. He laughed. “We can tell them he makes great booze, too.”

When no one responded, Minho cracked open his eyes. He rolled over onto his stomach and poked Newt in the back.

“Hey,” he said with another poke. “You got pretty hair.”

Thomas snorted as he tried to stifle his laugher and Teresa’s hand flew to cover her smiling lips. Newt’s cheeks turned pink as the blond slowly turned to look at Minho, who had a sleepy smile on his face.

“You should go to sleep,” Newt said, grabbing a pillow and tossing it over Minho’s face. The Runner mumbled something, then pushed the pillow off.

“M’not tired,” he said. He thwacked Newt with the pillow, though the blow lacked any real strength or effort. “‘Sides, I though we were discussin’ big important stuff here.”

“This Gally thing ain’t so important that it can’t wait awhile,” Newt said.

Minho wrinkled his nose. “I meant your hair.”

Thomas snorted again.

“What put you in such a bloody good mood, slinthead?” Newt asked. He took a long look at Minho, and then his eyes widened a little. “Did you take something?”

“I got no idea what you mean,” Minho said, but he turned away as he said it. Thomas remembered their conversation after visiting Ronald earlier.

“Ronald gave him some pills,” Thomas said quietly. “Pain killers.”

“Bloody unbelievable,” Newt said, rolling his eyes and throwing the pillow over Minho's head again. “This better not be like when you're drunk. Last time, you stole all of Frypan's onions and claimed they were your children. Took me a shuck hour to get you to give 'em back without cryin'.”

Minho hummed, then grabbed the pillow and actually _cuddled_ it. For a moment, Thomas thought he was asleep, but then he spoke.

“Kinda funny,” Minho said, his words slurred by sleepiness and muffled by the pillow. “How it all ties into Gally.”

* * *

“Never thought I’d see anyone cry over Gally,” Minho said. “Not in my whole shuck life.”

The bedside lamp, its green shade dulling the already dim bulb inside, was the only light to witness their discussion. The sun had set hours ago, around the time they finished up a too formal dinner and told the Golds what they could. The photograph they had shown them was a different one, but it was still unmistakably Gally. 

Newt did the talking, and he gave them the bare minimum truth. Their grandson’s name in the Glade was Gally. He was the Keeper of the Builders. They lost track of him during the escape from the Maze.

They mentioned nothing of the folder or its contents. Miss Vivian had excused herself when the tears came, and Ronald sent them away, assuring them that they could discuss more later.

“They’re his family,” Newt said. “Families are supposed to cry over each other.”

“Spare me,” Minho said, rolling his eyes. “Gally was a slinthead even before the Sting. I can’t imagine him being a decent kid.”

“Can you not be a jerk for one second?” Teresa said, glaring at Minho. “Gally’s a victim of WICKED, just like us. Why do you hate him so much?”

Thomas braced himself for the backlash, for Minho’s anger. But it never came. The Asian boy leveled his gaze at Teresa, returning her glare. When he spoke, his voice had an angry edge to it, but was mostly controlled.

“I spent three freakin’ years locked in a box with the shank,” Minho said. “I got plenty of reasons to hate him and I don’t need you snappin’ at me when you don’t understand shuck about it.”

Minho stood up, cutting through the air with a hand. “Look, you can stay in here and have your shucking pity party for poor little Gally or whatever, but I’m gonna get some air,” he said, walking toward the doors that led to the balcony. When he gripped the handle, he paused. “Just don’t stay up all night boohooin’ about him. We should use these beds while we can.”

With a gust of cold air, Minho left the room. Thomas glanced at Teresa, expecting to see an angry or otherwise upset expression on her face. Instead, there was a small smile pulling at the corners of her pink lips. She glanced at Newt.

“It’s pretty cold out,” she said. “You should really bring him a coat or something.”

Newt’s mouth fell open. “Did you do that on purpose?”

“I don’t know what you mean,” she said, but the glint in her eyes told Thomas that she did exactly that. She rose from the bed, where she had been sitting cross legged, and went over to the box of clothes, picking out a mens t-shirt and a pair of stretchy looking pants. “But I do know that I am turning in for the night.”

With that, she disappeared into the bathroom. Newt watched the closed door for a few minutes before turning to Thomas.

“That girl is bloody astounding,” he said. He glanced toward the glass doors and let out a sigh. He stood up and grabbed the WICKED issue jackets that weren’t stained, slipping one on. He glanced at the door again and then at Thomas. He raised his eyebrows. “Wish me luck.”


	15. Maybe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “There are times in life when people must know when not to let go. Balloons are designed to teach small children this.” ― Terry Pratchett

There was nothing quite like the bitter sting of cold to make a person regret their life choices. The temperature had plummeted since that afternoon, and, though the clouds obscured the stars and moon, there was just enough light from the room behind him to see his breath. Minho hugged his healthy arm against his chest. He didn’t even try to move the other one, since every time he did it sent a fresh spike of pain along the limb, despite the painkillers he’d taken before heading down to dinner.

He breathed in, inhaling the scent of rain, and then let it out as a sigh, a plume of frosted air rising and disappearing into the night. He only had to tough it out until the others went to bed. Then, with them asleep, he could find some privacy and—

The squeak of hinges pulled him from his thoughts. He whipped around, looking over his shoulder.

“Hey,” Newt said, closing the door with another squeak and a soft click. 

“Hey,” Minho said, and turned back toward the railing, trying to push down the part of him that was happy that Newt had followed him.

He heard the shuffle of footsteps and in a few seconds, the tall blond was at his side. 

“Brought you a coat,” Newt said. Minho glanced at him, eying the jacket he held.

“Great,” he mumbled, refusing to look at Newt. He grabbed it and tried to put it on one-handed, almost dropping it twice in his efforts to get his good hand through the correct armhole. After a moment of fumbling, Newt grabbed it and held it up for him.

“Here,” the blond said. Minho hesitated. It was completely embarrassing to acknowledge that he needed help doing something as simple as putting on a jacket, and he was half tempted to make a lame excuse about not really being cold or pridefully insist on his ability to do it by himself.

Then, he recalled the solid three minutes it took to put on his t-shirt after his shower, not to mention the time it took just to get his hair clean. Ronald had warned him not to get the bandages or the wounds wet, and Minho would never admit at how shucking useless his left hand was at doing anything.

He stuck his good arm through the hole and allowed Newt to pull it up and drape the other side over his shoulder and injured arm.

“Better?” Newt said, and Minho nodded before turning back toward the railing.

Silences with Newt weren’t supposed to be awkward. They were supposed to be comforting. They were supposed to make him feel good, like all the times in the Glade when, in the dead of night, they would lay on the grass with their shoulders touching, lost in the stars spilled across the sky. Even in the days before Minho had shoved Newt against the wall of the Map Room and made his feelings known, their ability to sit and simply exist together was one of the things that made it worth coming back to the Glade every night.

This silence just made him feel like he was going to puke.

He saw Newt fidget out of the corner of his eye, crossing his arms and pulling them tight to his chest. 

“Thanks for the coat,” Minho said. “But you don’t gotta shuckin’ stand out here like that.”

“Bloody shuck, you’re a slinthead,” Newt said, and Minho whipped around to look at him, catching the tail end of one of Newt’s trademark eye rolls.

Newt turned to face him. “Don’t get all pissy on me. You know buggin’ well I didn’t come out here just to give ya a coat.”

Minho tried to turn away, but Newt grabbed his hand, twining their fingers together and forcing Minho to face him.

“You know I never meant it like that, right?” the blond said, his voice turning softer as his thumb moved in idle circles. “Nothin’ about us is irrelevant or unimportant.”

“That so?” Minho said. He tugged halfheartedly at his hand, but stopped, suppressing a shudder, when Newt’s thumb ran over his palm. Minho wouldn’t look at him, keeping his eyes glued on their joined hands. “We’re not in the Glade anymore. We don’t… there’s a big world of people out there.”

“I don’t want anyone in this bloody world but you, ya stupid shank.”

Minho swallowed and felt a burning in the back of his throat. He tugged his hand again, but Newt tightened his grip.

“You still don’t believe that, do you?” Newt said. “What’s it gonna take? A bleedin’ marriage proposal?”

Minho’s eyes flicked up to meet Newt’s.

“If you’re gonna propose, then I want a ring,” he said, keeping his voice completely serious. “A shuckin’ big one, something that can help me knock a shank out with one punch.”

Newt laughed. It was the airy, free laugh that he never used half as much as he deserved. Minho couldn’t help mirror his wide grin, and let out a chuckle of his own.

As their voices faded into the evening air, Newt tugged him closer, until he could feel the heat radiating from the blond’s body. Their breath joined into a single cloud. The warmth they shared at that moment did more to keep out the cold than a coat ever would.

It was too familiar, too commonplace for what their lives had become. He’d spent so many nights in the Glade savoring this warmth that it would be easy to let his eyes slip closed and take solace in that soothing heat once more.

But somewhere along the way, it had stopped being a comfort. Now, it was only a reminder of what they would both lose.

It was a lie.

The tightness in his chest threatened to choke him and he swallowed through the constriction in his throat. He tilted his head down so he wouldn’t have to look at Newt, but fingers found his chin and pulled up. Minho jerked his head away, taking a step back and pulling his hand away from Newt’s, severing all contact.

Glancing up quickly, he saw the blond’s hand outstretched, a look of hurt on his face. After a moment, Newt let his hands fall to his sides and let out a sigh, smoky tendrils of air crawling into the sky. He crossed his arms and leaned against the railing, increasing the distance between them.

They shared the quiet for a time, both unwilling to break it. It didn’t make Minho want to puke, like their earlier silence, but neither was it comforting. It simply was, and that in and of itself hurt.

Minho walked to the railing, wrapping his hands around the cold metal. It burned a little, and his right arm screamed its protest as he tightened his grip. But he held on and held all the tighter. On the horizon, lightning flashed, and many seconds later a faint rumble reached them.

“I’m sorry,” Newt said.

“I know,” he said. He tried not to look, but his eyes wouldn’t obey. He found that the other boy was chewing on a thumbnail, his brow creased. Minho bit his lip, then spoke the next words in a mumble that he almost hoped would be lost on the wind. “I’m not mad.”

Of course, nothing ever went his way, and Newt ceased chewing his nail and looked up at him. Disbelief flooded his eyes.

“You can’t tell me that what I said didn’t piss you off,” he said.

“I didn’t say that. It did,” Minho said. “But I’m not mad anymore.”

“How zen,” Newt said, rolling his eyes. “Where did this enlightened you come from? ‘Cause five days ago you got mad at your bloody eggs for bein’ scrambled.”

At that moment, Minho had a sudden, pressing urge to tell the truth, if only because he hated lying to Newt.

“I hate scrambled eggs. They deserved it,” he said with a shrug and a smirk that he hoped was convincing. He always knew those little gray truths would be the end of him, but cowardice wasn’t something that one just got over.

Newt didn’t reply. Minho glanced at the horizon. A flash of lightning broke the dull, black sky, its blue-white tendrils reaching out like spiders’ legs, making the clouds glow.

The rumble, this time, was louder, and Minho took a deep breath to calm the unease he felt.

“You don’t get to do that,” Newt said. Minho glanced at him and was taken aback by the bitter twist of his lips and angry set of his jaw. The blond pushed off the railing, pacing the narrow span of the balcony as he continued. “You don’t get to go from telling me there’s a world of people to joking to pushing me away and then making another bloody joke.”

Minho frowned. “Where do you shucking get off telling me what I can—”

“You don’t!” Newt said, the power behind his voice making Minho close his mouth with a snap. The blond marched forward and poked his chest so hard he had to grip the railing to stop himself from stumbling back from the force. Newt did it again and he did stumble back, but the space he gained was quickly swallowed up by Newt’s forward steps. “You buggin’ insufferable little…”

Newt’s insults flew as he forced Minho back, every few words punctuated with another push, another half step back, another few inches of ground lost.

Minho should have been mad. He should have been furious that he was being manhandled and insulted and accused of illicit and anatomically impossible dalliances with Grievers. He should have held his ground instead of giving it up like some kind of sissy. He should have pushed back.

But he wasn’t, and he didn’t. Maybe it was because it was Newt, and him getting physical like this was such a rarity that Minho knew no other reaction than shock. The blond’s best weapon was words, and he knew it. It wasn’t because he was a control freak. Despite what people thought and all his speeches about capital-O Order, he wasn’t. He despised formality and reveled in disorganization and had mocked Minho more than once for his charts and graphs and schedule system for the Runners. But he didn’t do violence.

They complemented each other in that, opposites that united into a single, cohesive whole. 

Maybe it was because it was _Newt_ , and, even if Minho’s first reaction was to fight back, he’d never do anything to harm the blond. Not while he still had a shred of himself left in his shucked up brain. Maybe it was because of how his conversation with Ronald had ended, and how, even if he had given up on hope, the man had given him something of a lifeline.

Maybe, he thought as his back struck the wall, making it impossible for him to retreat any further, it was because he wanted this. He wanted Newt’s unleashed anger. He wanted the other boy to stop handling him with kids gloves and compassion.

He noticed, belatedly, that the taller boy had stopped speaking and his cheeks flushed with the realization that a part of him wanted this for very different reasons. His pulse quickened as Newt’s palm pressed against his chest.

It had been too long since they had anything resembling privacy. The last time (the _real_ last time, one that wasn’t some mechanically induced hallucination courtesy of the sick shucks at WICKED) had been in the Glade, the night after Thomas was stung. They’d barely made it to shelter in time, sealing themselves away inside the weapons room for the night. Of course, between the horrifying sounds of the Grievers, and, later, the wails of Zart as the monsters took him, they’d done nothing more than hold each other between stolen moments of sleep.

Minho swallowed before finding his voice.

“You done?” he said. He tried to look Newt in the eye, but the corner of the balcony the blond had pushed him into was cast in shadows. All he could see was the dark outline of Newt’s form. If nothing else, this probably meant that Newt couldn’t see his blush.

Newt let out a bark of laughter, throwing his head back before shaking it slowly as the laughter faded.

“Did none of that get through your shuckin’ head?” Newt said. Hysteria laced his words and it worried Minho that he’d said something to finally make him snap. “Are you past the Gone already?”

Minho growled and knocked Newt’s hand aside. He let go without a fight, moving the hand to rest on the wall near Minho’s shoulder.

“Maybe you should shuckin’ say it plain rather than throw a bunch of klunk at me,” he spat.

“You want it plain?” Newt said. “Not surprisin’ you need it said simple since you been such a stupid shank lately.”

“Get the shuck on with it!” Minho said, only vaguely registering that he’d probably said that loud enough for Thomas and Teresa to hear them inside. He shoved Newt’s shoulder and tried to step away from him, but the blond’s arm got in the way.

“I bloody love you!” Newt said. He didn’t speak half as loud as Minho had, but the words rang out strong enough to stop Minho’s escape attempts. He froze as he processed the words, but Newt backed away, letting his arms fall limply to his sides.

“I love you,” he said. “And I’m bloody insulted that you think I don’t see what you’re doin’.”

Minho swallowed, shifted, and looked down at his feet, which he could barely make out as vague, slightly darker blotches in the darkness. He shouldn’t have been surprised. If Thomas could see through his behavior, it was no shock that Newt could.

“You don’t have to protect me,” Newt said. “I’m not gonna break.”

It wasn’t the words he said so much as the limitless confidence with which he said them. It wasn’t the brave face he used among the Gladers, from the greenest greenbean to the oldest original. That pretense was something Newt always let slide among those he was closest to. Minho had been witness, too many times, to the way that such false confidence peeled away from Newt like a second skin with the closing of a door. In privacy, that chameleon’s gambit traded a lifted chin for sagging shoulders, a smile for tired eyes, and boyish laughter for a weary sigh.

Maybe he was conceited, but, for the first time, he considered the possibility that his own death wouldn’t push Newt over the edge. Maybe he wouldn’t break.

And, if that was the case, then Minho was only hurting himself by pushing the blond away.

He looked down at his bandaged arm, though he couldn’t see it beneath the coat. He could feel the skin pull against itself and the stitches with every twitch of movement. He could feel the countless scrapes, scratches, and bruises that littered the rest of his body. None of them compared to the ceaseless burning inside his skull that had plagued him since the Scorch.

“Do you love me?”

Minho’s gaze snapped up to look at Newt. For once, he regretted the darkness, because the ex-Runner’s voice betrayed nothing of what he might be thinking. In their years together, Minho had learned to read Newt as easily as words on a page. What little didn’t pass through the blond’s eyes, he picked up from his body language. Sometimes, he felt like they had entire conversations without speaking a word. Other times, he felt like some deeper meaning passed between them, a raw understanding that was beyond language.

“What kind of shuck question is that?” Minho said. “You know I do.”

The words spilled from his mouth before he had a chance to think about them. That could have been his shot, his opportunity to… well, to protect Newt. Maybe he wouldn’t break, but no matter what, it _was_ Minho’s job to protect him. Not because he was weak—he wasn’t, and he never had been, even at his lowest—but because he was Newt.

“Then why d’you think pushin’ me away is gonna work?” Newt said. He moved to lean against the wall next to Minho, pressing their shoulders against each other. “‘Cause I can tell ya right now it won’t. The Maze. The Scorch. I been by your side since forever, and nothin’ changes that. Nothin’ can.”

Minho shook his head, more at himself than at Newt. What he said to Thomas that afternoon was right. Newt took it all inside and made every hurt his own. Maybe he wouldn’t break, but having to watch Minho’s descent into complete lunacy would hurt him in ways that could never be fixed, like cracks in a mirror.

And all those cracks? Eventually, they’d make him shatter.

“Do you even understand what’s happening to me?” Minho said. He was beyond tact, beyond trying to hide the bitterness in his words.

Newt stood there silently for a time. When he spoke again, his voice was a murmur, something that Minho could only hear because they were so close.

“Better than you think.”

There was nuance held in those four simple words, and it scared Minho that they might have depths which he couldn’t understand. But before he could begin to consider them more, Newt was speaking again.

“Look, Jorge was right. I know you don’t wanna admit it, but we both know he was,” Newt said. “You accused us of cryin’ all about Gally in there, but fact is that you’re the one wallowin’ in self pity.”

Minho snorted. Maybe he did feel sorry for himself—and he had a right to, considering—but at least he wouldn’t whine about it.

“I’m tired,” Newt said, pushing off from the wall and turning to face Minho. “You’re tired, I can see it. But I got one thing to tell you before I turn in, and I want you to think real hard about it.”

Minho sighed and ran a hand through his hair. It figured that Newt’d give him homework.

“What’s tha—”

He was cut off when a pair of warm, chapped lips pressed against his. Newt had leaned in so fast that he barely had time to process the movement before Newt’s lips stole his.

Minho stood still as a statue for several seconds, the breath pulled from his lungs by the kiss. The only evidence that he was a real, living human was the twitch of his fingers as his arms hung limply by his sides.

He felt Newt begin to pull back, but he reached out with his good hand and caught the front of his t-shirt. As he pushed his lips against Newt’s and felt the other boy’s fingers in his hair, he only felt a little guilty about giving in.

After all, a man can only fight the current for so long before it pulls him out to sea.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope that POV change wasn't too jarring. Originally, I was planning on making this a bonus scene or something, but I realized that the story I want to tell simply can't be told solely from Thomas's point of view. He's still going to be the main narrator, but there will be others.
> 
> Also, my update day will be changing due to my classes resuming. Most likely it'll be Sunday night/Monday morning, but I haven't fully decided yet.


	16. Heisenbug

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “The street finds its own uses for things.” ― William Gibson, Burning Chrome

Thomas became aware of the world slowly. It was a gradual, natural awakening, one that he savored since they were so few and far between. The first thing he noticed was the quiet murmurs in the room. Familiar voices. Safe voices. Next was the red of his eyelids and, finally, the warmth behind him and the weight of something around his waist.

“…Feel better now?”

“Bit. Cuts itch like crazy. Shoulder still hurts when I move it.”

“Probably ‘cause I had to pop it back in after I stopped the bleeding. I can give you another massage after, if…”

Thomas yawned, feeling his jaw pop as he opened it wide. He cracked open his eyes. The morning sunlight—or what little of it managed to filter through the perpetually cloudy sky—bathed the room in a dull gray. On the bed on the floor, amid a mess of blankets and sheets, sat Minho and Newt. The blond was pinning a fresh bandage into place around Minho’s arm.

“What time is it?” Thomas said, though the question was so slurred together that it came out as a single word. Both of his friends looked up, Minho with a smirk and Newt like he was trying to hold back a smile.

“‘Bout ten,” Newt said. “You got somethin’ on your back, Tommy.”

Minho laughed and for several long seconds, Thomas was perplexed. Then, he remembered the warmth and looked down, lifting his head. There was a pale, thin arm curled around his stomach.

Thomas yawned and let his head fall back on the pillow, closing his eyes.

“Why am I always the little spoon?” he muttered.

“Because you’re my delicate flower,” Teresa said from behind him, her voice heavy with sleep. When she spoke, he could feel her hot breath on the back of his neck.

Thomas heard the others burst into laughter and tried to ignore the way his face heated up. Even then, he didn’t push her arm away. She moved away from him, and he found himself wanting to follow her, and not only because his back was now cold in her absence.

“You’ve been doing it for hours,” Minho said between spurts of laughter. “You’re like one of those baby monkeys holding on to its mom.”

“Hours?” Thomas said, cracking open one eye. “How long’ve you guys been up?”

“Since about six.”

“ _Six_?” Thomas said, both of his eyes snapping open. They hadn’t gone to bed late—well, he hadn’t. Last night, he fell asleep almost the moment his head hit the pillow, and never heard the others come back inside. But despite that, he felt like he could sleep for hours more.

“Yep,” Newt said. “While you two were pullin’ your Rip Van Winkle impression, we were gettin’ breakfast.”

“Changing my bandages,” Minho added.

“Doin’ our taxes.”

“Bringing down WICKED.”

“Curin’ the Flare.”

“Getting married. It was a beautiful ceremony.”

“We got three kids now.”

Minho fell back onto the bed with a snort of laughter, and Newt quickly followed suit, doubling over as he cracked up.

“Wow,” Teresa said, sitting up. Her hair was still in the braided pigtails, though it was frizzy from a night of sleep. “Impressive. Almost as impressive as Newt getting his figure back after all those kids.”

Newt’s laughter cut off abruptly following Teresa’s words, but Minho let out a howl loud enough to make up for it.

“Why’m I the mum?” Newt said, an offended look on his face. “I am not the mum!”

“You are totally the mom,” Thomas said, snickering. Newt grabbed a pillow, but hesitated, looking between each of them as if to decide who to throw it at. He settled on Minho, and the Asian boy’s laughter was immediately muffled by the pillow hitting his face. Eventually they all sobered up, Newt’s grumbles fading away with Minho’s stifled chuckles.

“I take it you two patched things up, then?” Thomas said, not bothering to even make the comment sound nonchalant.

Minho sat up, tossing the pillow off to the side. It rolled off the bed, and Minho gave a one shouldered shrug. Newt rolled his eyes at their Leader and muttered in the affirmative.

“Were there smooches?” Teresa asked, and Thomas grinned at the way she wiggled her eyebrows and made a kissy face. 

“So many,” Newt said, his voice a dry monotone.

“Why would you tell her that?” Minho said, punching Newt in the arm.

“Why?” Newt said. “You ashamed of kissin’ me?”

“So glad you aren’t getting a divorce, mom and dad,” he said, loudly to get their attention. He sat up and rubbed his eyes, realizing how hungry he was. They’d been well fed since coming here—sandwiches and cookies and roast chicken with vegetables for last night’s dinner, but he was a teenage boy, and one whose body was still recovering from weeks of a limited diet. “But more importantly… you said ‘breakfast’?”

“Yeah,” Minho said. He waved his hand in some vague direction and laid back on the bed. Thomas looked around and saw a chair that hadn’t been there last night. On it were several bottles of water and a plate filled with pastries and fruit.

He hopped out of bed, heading straight for the food. He tossed a water bottle to Teresa, then grabbed another and the plate before returning to the bed. They sat on the edge, the plate between them, eating pieces of fruit and tiny muffins.

“Dunno how you’ve been up for that long,” Thomas said between bites of a strawberry. “I feel like I could sleep for another day and a half.”

Minho shrugged. “Life started shuckin’ early in the Glade. You two weren’t there long enough to get used to it, and sleepin' beauty there,” he said, nodding to Teresa. “Slept for most of it.”

"Aww, you think I'm beautiful?" Teresa cooed.

"As if, sister," Minho said.

Teresa stuck her tongue out at him, but instead of firing back with a biting remark, she popped a tiny muffin into her mouth and hummed in delight, licking crumbs off her fingers.

Thomas was happy to fall into silence and eat his breakfast. It was amazing, the wonders that such a small thing like a good supply of tasty food could give. But after eating a few more strawberries and a lot more muffins, he glanced up and could never have missed the serious looks on Minho and Newt’s faces or the way they exchanged a meaningful glance.

“What’s up?” Thomas said. He was almost afraid to ask.

“We were talkin’ this morning…” Newt said, his voice trailing off weakly.

“About?” Thomas pressed.

“‘Bout what we should do now,” Newt said. “It’s not a good idea for us to stay here.”

“Why not?” Teresa said. “D’you still think the Golds are working with WICKED?”

“No,” Minho said, though Thomas didn't miss the uncertainly in the word. Minho had doubted Vivian Gold's intentions since the beginning, and the only reason he’d agreed to go—or to stay—was because of the three of them. And maybe the food. But either way, the older boy wasn’t keen to trust. “But WICKED’s still a problem. We don’t know when they could jump out of shuckin’ nowhere to snatch us up again. Staying in one place like this? We’re askin’ for it.”

“They’re gonna come after us,” Newt said. “And bein’ here, we put Ronald and Vivian in danger.”

Thomas glanced at Teresa, who was worrying her bottom lip between her teeth. A part of him knew they were right, that staying with the Golds would only end badly. But another part of him refused to let go of the hope that their first good break since… well, since ever, would actually turn out for the best.

“We don’t know if they can find us,” he said. It was worth arguing the possibilities, even if the end result would be the same. “If they could, they woulda gotten us back in the forest.”

“Maybe,” Newt said. “Maybe it took a while to get everything runnin’ again. Maybe they’re testing us. Shuck, maybe they’re bloody using us to get to the Golds. Vivian said something about how they hacked WICKED’s computers to find us. They can’t like that.”

“Even if they can’t track us, we’re on their shuckin’ list,” Minho said. “Especially Thomas.”

Newt elbowed him.

“What?” Minho said, leaning away as Newt tried to elbow him again. “He’s their favorite! Not like I mind.”

Thomas didn’t respond, letting himself soak it all in. They were right. WICKED was a ceaseless enemy, a tireless hunter that would stop at nothing to pursue them. They didn’t have any other options than staying on the move.

“We should see what they know,” Teresa said. Her lip was red and swollen from biting it, but her eyes were hard, determined. “Try and get as much information as we can from them before we leave. And we should be upfront with them. I don’t think they’ll stop us from leaving. Might even help.”

“Agreed,” Newt said while Thomas nodded.

Minho didn’t say anything, regarding Teresa with a look that Thomas couldn’t figure out. After a few seconds, he nodded and looked away.

* * *

The Golds’ dining room was grand, formal enough to make Thomas feel like he should be wearing a suit. The dark, glossy wooden table could have seated twenty people comfortably, and it felt like there was a great distance between each of them, though they were all clustered to one end. High above the table there were three crystal chandeliers, a large one flanked by two smaller ones. Each was made of thousands of tiny pieces of glass that glittered in the light.

Not their own light, however. They weren’t on. Instead, they dined by several floor lamps, their papery shades casting a yellow glow over the rather dim room.

But the eerie glow did nothing to distract from the taste of the food. No one had said a word since dinner had been served, their fervor to dig into the meal in front of them cutting off the awkward, pre-meal conversation.

To Thomas, the most important thing in the word right now was pot roast.

Teresa was to his right, eating almost as ferociously as him. At some point during their long, tedious day in the room, she’d taken out the braids, and now her long, dark hair fell over her shoulders in curls.

Across from them, Newt and Minho were digging into their food with similar gusto. Thomas wondered if they all had some subconscious fear that this would be their last good meal in a while and that they should make it count.

Every so often, he cast the occasional glance toward Ronald and Miss Vivian, who were eating their own dinners at a much more polite pace. Thomas could make out a puffiness around the old woman’s eyes, but any discoloration had been skillfully masked with makeup.

But there was no denying in the way she ate with steady, controlled bites, alternating meat and potato, that she was still reeling from their revelation about Gally.

_Newt seems worried._

Thomas was glad that a part of him had grown so used to Teresa’s voice inside of his head, because, just a few short weeks ago, he would have flinched so violently at a sudden intrusion that it would have drawn everyone’s attention to him.

Instead, he only fumbled with his fork.

After steadying the utensil, he glanced up at the blond. Newt was chewing the food like he didn’t even taste it, eating at a much faster, but similarly mechanical way to Miss Vivian. The only time he looked up from his plate was to give a small, apprehensive look toward Minho.

 _He worries about everything,_ Thomas said. He watched her, felt a little jealous at the fact that she didn’t fumble her own fork or give any other cue that he had just spoken to her telepathically. _But… yeah. Do you think it’s Minho? That they really patched things up?_

 _Considering how they were talking earlier?_ Teresa said, giving her response as quickly as if they had been talking. _Yeah. Besides, Newt wasn’t lying about the smooches._

Thomas could feel his eyes go wide.

 _You watched them?_ He said. 

 _No,_ Teresa said. _But I had problems falling asleep and they didn’t come in for almost an hour last night. Plus, they were holding hands when they came in._

Thomas couldn’t hold back a smile. He'd have to tease Minho about that later.

He kept a close eye on Newt throughout the rest of the meal, and noticed how, every so often, he cast a glance not at Minho, but at Ronald. Not the Golds as a pair, or Miss Vivian, but specifically the doctor. He couldn't make out what the blond was feeling, but the look was almost a glare, holding far more apprehension than those he sent toward Minho.

As the meal drew to a close, Minho nudged Newt and they shared a look that ended in Newt rolling his eyes, then clearing his throat and looking at the Golds. The older couple looked up. As if sensing that there was about to be a discussion had, they both set down their silverware and pushed away their plates, Miss Vivian dabbing her lips delicately with a cloth napkin.

“Somethin’ you wanna talk about son?” Ronald asked. His caring tone sent flashes through Thomas’s mind, of tiny rubber hammers, the taste of lollipops, and the feeling of his small hand enveloped in a woman’s—his mother’s. Thomas didn't think either of these people were allied with WICKED, and though he felt sympathy for Vivian, he actually liked Ronald. While the woman had been kind to them, she had an aloof air about her, whereas her husband had a compassion and warmth that clearly drove his career choice.

“We, uh… We’ve been thinking—talking, and we decided,” Newt said. “We decided it might be best if we left.”

There was a pause as the Golds considered Newt’s words. After a moment, Miss Vivian tilted her head and spoke.

“Why do you think this?” she said. “Have we done something to make you feel unsafe?”

“No,” Minho said. “We’re more worried about WICKED than you.”

Miss Vivian raised her eyebrows.

“Are you worried about them finding you?” she said. She glanced at all of them as she spoke, and eventually they all nodded. “Do you know how WICKED is able to track you?”

“Something in our heads,” Thomas said.

“Microchips or something,” Teresa jumped in. “Stuff that lets us… lets them keep an eye on us.”

“Precisely,” Miss Vivian said. “And WICKED, as funded as their organization has been, does not hold a monopoly on technology, or on those well versed in it. You see, those chips in your heads are as susceptible to interference as any other computer.”

“And?” Minho said after the woman paused.

“And WICKED can no longer track you,” Ronald said.

A silence enveloped the room and the four of them looked at each other. Thomas felt a flutter of hope in his chest at the idea—at the prospect of them truly being outside of WICKED’s sphere of control. But that hope was quickly dashed as he recalled all the other times he thought himself free of WICKED.

“Explain,” Newt said.

“We only know so much. I can’t promise we have all the answers you want,” Miss Vivian said. “But… I can tell you that WICKED cannot track you the way they did before, and that is because of a young woman named Princess.”

“… _Princess_?” Minho said, raising his eyebrows. Then he shook his head and let out a laugh. “OK, now I know you’re lyin’. First you want us to buy some klunk about how you just so happened to find us, and now you’re sayin’ we’re off WICKED’s radar because of some girl nerd named Princess?”

Minho moved to stand up, but Newt reached out and grabbed him by the wrist. Minho sent him a heated glare for a few seconds before sitting back down, yanking his arm away from Newt and crossing both over his chest.

“You can see how we might find that a little hard to believe,” Thomas said, breaking the strained silence. 

“Understandable,” Miss Vivian said, giving a small smile that looked forced. “To be quite honest, I am surprised you hadn’t asked sooner, considering the circumstances.”

“Well,” Newt said, casting a glance at Minho. “It hasn’t been the time.”

“Can you just… explain?” Teresa said. “About the microchips. About how you found us. About Princess.”

“Of course,” Miss Vivian said, and Thomas thought her smile, at the mention of this mysterious women, became more genuine. “Princess has spent the last few years working against WICKED, at great personal expense.”

“Is she the one who leaked those reports?” Newt said. “The ones you said were sent to you?”

“No, I don’t believe so. However, it was because of those that we sought her out and formed an alliance,” she said. “She managed to find you because she has several covertly placed viral programs in WICKED’s servers, and received an alert about an incident at the Rainier facility. Not only did she manage to contain who received the alert, but she hacked into the system that tracks you. She knew of my proximity to your location and contacted me, and I sent out Butch and his men.”

“Unfortunately,” Ronald said. “You four were the only signals in range. I know there were more children, but…”

“We separated. A… larger group went ahead,” Thomas said, casting glances at the others. They had already agreed to be careful what they revealed to the Golds, just in case their good fortune was another trap. “We went back, for the two you found us with.”

“I see. Well, Princess is no amateur,” Miss Vivian said. “She can’t deactivate the chips, but she can change how they transmit their signal. You aren’t visible on WICKED’s network anymore. They can’t track you.”

Minho shook his head. 

“Doesn’t matter,” he said. “Even if we could trust the work of some Kate Libby wannabe, WICKED’s not gonna stop because their chips don’t work.”

“Kate Libby?” Newt said, frowning.

“We won’t stop you if you want to leave,” Ronald said. “We can give you money, clothes, maybe some transportation. But before you decide, I want you to ask yourselves: Would you have a better chance out there, with more eyes, more cameras, more chances for WICKED to see you?”

None of them responded, sharing a few nervous glances.

“I know you don't trust us. I wouldn't expect you to," Miss Vivian said. "But we really do want to give you freedom from WICKED. A chance at a real life.”

The woman rose from her seat, Ronald following her lead.

“There are people, allies in the fight against WICKED, that we would love for you to meet,” she said. “At the very least, stay and recuperate for the next few days and allow me time to arrange you some money and clothes. If you want to walk away now, I won't stop you, but I promise you that WICKED will not find you here, and if you stay, you will not regret it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Turns out my update day probably won't be changing because of how my classes are set up this semester.


	17. This Ghost (has a past without you)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Dreams are all I have ever truly owned.” ― David Mitchell, Cloud Atlas

_He runs._

_The city, what is left of it, passes in a blur of broken windows and smoke. Dust curls around his feet with every step, every push._

_He does not look back. To look back is to fall, to lose himself to the void, and to undo everything he has become._

_He runs. He runs, his lungs and his throat burning, his eyes watering from the lack of air and the smoke and flying dust. He runs through the pain, like every step will shatter the bones of his legs, leave him crippled, prey for what lies behind and beyond._

_He runs, faster than he ever had before or ever will again._

_Tears well up in his eyes. He tries to ignore them, but they blur his vision, making it harder to see the debris and ruin around him. Making it dangerous to run._

_But he runs._

_A corner, and the soles of his worn sneakers slipping over asphalt._

_He falls, cries out. The fabric of his jeans tears. The skin along his knees and hands. His right forearm. Peeled away by the rough surface of the road, blood blossoming in tiny pinpricks before coalescing._

_There is no time to lick his wounds. He pushes up onto his feet again, wincing as his knees shift position, irritating the already abraded skin._

_A laugh. Behind him, around him, echoing off the ruined shells of brick and mortar._

_He wipes his eyes with an arm and starts to run again._

_The laugh doesn’t stop, its high and melodic tone only serving to force the already rapid pace of his heart into overdrive. He skitters around a wrecked truck, its body dented and rusted and covered with dirt. His burning lungs and aching limbs tell him what he already knows: He cannot keep this up for much longer. He cannot run forever. He looks around, seeking out a place to hide. But there is none, only rubble, ash, and despair._

_He turns another corner and reaches a long stretch of road. Its surface is cracked, but it is clear of debris, cars, and other pieces of ruined civilization._

_He steels himself and runs, tilting his head down and closing his eyes against the burning wind. The laughter fades into the distance, but still he does not stop._

_He does not know how far he runs, but when he opens his eyes and turns to look, the city behind him is a smoldering husk on the horizon. He falls to his knees, the impact against his tender flesh fading into numbness. His clothes are soaked with sweat, but his skin is curiously dry. Somehow, he knows this is bad, that it is a sign of his body giving up._

_But he is too tired to care._

_The road is hot from baking in the sun, but, away from the city, the wind is cool, no longer herded and restrained by man’s creations. He shivers as it whips through his wet clothes._

_Behind him—definitely behind him this time, for there is nothing to echo off of in this place—melodic laughter cadences through the air._

_Away from the city, she stands, forty feet in front of him. She isn’t a tall woman by any means, actually quite short. Petite. She stands, feet planted together, in the middle of the road, on the yellow line that divides lanes. Her hair, cut sharply at her chin and as black as the space between stars in the night sky, flutters gently in the breeze._

_Her lips quirk in a smile. She shows no teeth._

_He cannot move as she approaches, glued to the ground as if roots had sprung from the scrapes on his knees and sought the earth hidden beneath the asphalt._

_Her steps are muted, any sound from her bare feet lost in the wind. Twenty feet and he feels the sense of surety in his own demise settle in his chest._

_Ten and he feels resistance drain from him._

_Five and he knows terror._

_When she stands in front of him, all he can do is look up. She smiles down at him, and this time she shows her teeth. He doesn’t know what he expected, exactly. Perhaps something sharp and pointed and predatory. But not this. Not blunt, flat, white. Monsters don’t have human teeth._

_The woman raises a hand and cups his cheek. He almost leans into it, like the contact had once been something familiar, pleasant._

_But he does not, because he knows that this is dangerous._

_He fears._

_But he doesn’t pull away. He is a coward, but he is not weak. He will run, far and fast until his lungs collapse and his bones splinter, but he will not tremble and beg when she catches him._

_She walks around him, her fingers tracing across his face, through his hair, then to his neck, coming to rest on the words etched there in black ink. He does not cry out._

* * *

Thomas opened his eyes to a beige ceiling and found he was alone. There were no quiet murmurs, no beautiful brunette to share warmth.

He lifted his head and peered over the edge of the bed from his position on the floor. There was no sign of Minho and Newt. He swept a hand over the empty space next to him. The sheets were cold. No breakfast waited on the chair. 

He sat up, stretching his arms over his head. The bathroom door was ajar, and it was empty. But through the glass doors of the balcony, he saw Teresa. He could only see the back of her as she leaned on the railing, her hair blowing gently in the breeze.

Thomas stood, stretched with a yawn, and grabbed one of the soft, knitted blankets from the bed, wrapping it around his shoulders before approaching the door. The hinges squeaked when he opened it, and Teresa whipped around to look, pieces of her dark hair falling across her face.

She looked beautiful, standing there, her chin held high and her neck long, her pale skin glowing in the morning light. She was almost etherial, like something he could hardly believe was real.

An image flashed through his consciousness of this same girl, the life quickly draining from her body, crushed under debris.

To save him.

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

Thomas flinched and his eyes refocused. Teresa wore a gentle smile, and Thomas realized he had paused halfway through the door, his hand still clasped around the handle. He shook his head to clear this thoughts.

“I…” he said, but didn’t know what to say. It was an eerie feeling that he got when he looked at her sometimes, like maybe he was only just starting to process that she was _alive_. The last week had been nothing but confusion, and, outside of first waking up and seeing Newt and his breakdown two days ago in the garden, he’d felt so numb about it all.

It was like a part of him was afraid of getting attached, in case it was all another simulation or dream. Worse still was the idea that everything before had been real, and somewhere along the line a part of him snapped, and this—Teresa and Newt alive, the four of them together and, for the moment, free of WICKED—was all in his head.

He stepped out onto the balcony and let the door squeak shut behind him. The blanket had been a good choice, because it was even colder today than it had been in the days before, and tiny drops of rain fell lazily to the earth. They were sheltered by the eaves of the house, and Thomas didn’t mind the weather much. After so long in the Scorch, he had a newfound appreciation of the cold that not even their time in the forest could extinguish.

Teresa was only wearing a pair of sweatpants and a thin shirt, big enough that the sleeves trailed past her fingertips if she didn’t push them up.

“Share?” he said, waving one corner of the blanket at her. 

She looked at him for a moment, then took the corner and pulled it over her shoulders, sliding closer to him.

The balcony wasn’t large, and the rail that surrounded it was rusted in places, but the view it offered of the grounds and the nearby properties was nice, even if neither were well kept. He liked it, in a way, the raw unkempt meeting of nature and civilization.

“I think I’m from somewhere sunny,” Teresa said after a while, wrinkling her nose at the dismal sky.

“Or maybe you’re from somewhere like this,” he said. “And you just hated it.”

Teresa let out a laugh, but it was short and faded into the air as quickly as it had come.

“I wish I could remember more,” she said. “But then I keep picturing the Scorch, those Cranks… what kind of a world ships its sick off to die like that? Maybe we’re better off knowing less.”

“Maybe,” Thomas said with a shrug. “Maybe not. I remember burgers and road trips and petting zoos. Ever since the Changing, I remember some faces. People from before. My mom. But I wish I could remember more, like my dad, or if I have any brothers or sisters.”

Thomas saw the way Teresa’s shoulders tensed at the mention of family.

“That’s one of the things I don’t want to know about,” she said after a few seconds. “I don’t want to remember any of that. Most of us… most of us probably didn’t have family to hand us over to WICKED, Tom.”

Frail was a word he would never use to describe Teresa, not after knowing—and seeing—what she was capable of. But right now, she looked more vulnerable than Thomas had ever seen her, including her comatose state right after arriving in the Glade. Her eyes were wide, the blue a bright beacon among her palette of white skin and black hair. 

“There has to be some chance,” Thomas said. “I mean… Gally, he has a family waiting for him out here. He can’t be the only one.”

“Maybe,” Teresa mused, but Thomas felt as if she said that only to offer a concession to him. “I’m worried about them. The others. Frypan, and the girls. Aris.”

Thomas bit his lip at the mention of the boy, the one whom Thomas still had trouble thinking of as an ally. When they first met, he liked Aris, but ever since his and Teresa’s betrayal act, seeing, hearing, or even thinking about the guy made something inside Thomas flare up.

“I tried to talk to him,” Teresa said. “Right after we left. That whole first day. But he never responded—I don’t know if he even heard me, or if we were too far apart. Maybe it was because of our chips. Maybe we’re not on the same channel or whatever anymore. Did you ever…?”

Thomas stilled at her question, then grimaced and shook his head.

“Is it because of what we did?” she said. “Back… back in the Scorch?”

That was a question Thomas wasn’t sure he could answer. A part of it was tied up in that betrayal, but it was hard to untangle his feelings and recognize _which_ part. He wasn’t mad about the act itself—not anymore. But there was something about the way it happened, with Teresa and Aris collaborating on it so closely, that made it hard to look at the other boy in a positive light.

He trusted Teresa again. He didn’t know at what point it happened, if he’d somehow worked through everything during his simulation. But he did, and he knew that now. However, no such thing happened with Aris, and Thomas didn’t know if he’d ever get over the look in the other boy’s eyes when he’d kissed Teresa.

“Not really,” he said, unsure if the words counted as a lie. “I just didn’t even think about it. I was… it feels like my brain’s been scrambled ever since I woke up, ya know?”

“I think we’ve all been a little scrambled,” Teresa said. “I can’t believe… I… Tom, do you remember what I wrote on my arm when I woke up in the Glade?”

“WICKED is good,” Thomas said. 

“I keep saying those words to myself in my head, and I don’t know why. I guess… I used to believe it. I believed that there had to be a good reason for why they were doing all of this. I know I can’t keep believing that anymore, but a part of me still keeps saying those words.”

“That’s not your fault,” he said. “WICKED made you.”

“We worked for them,” she said. She gripped the edge of the blanket and looked away from him. “We… did this.”

“They forced us.”

“Are you so sure of that?” she said, then shook her head, shrugging off the blanket, a burst of cold air hitting Thomas. “I’m hungry. We should go find some breakfast. I bet Minho and Newt are already downstairs.”

Without another word, she went back inside. Thomas wasn’t sure how long he stood there, but soon he had to pull the blanket tighter around himself for warmth, and it did nothing for the cold biting at his toes, even through the thick socks. He watched her as she sat on the bed, facing away from him, her shoulders sagging.

* * *

“No! You can’t do that, Tommy,” Newt said, frustration laced in every word as he all but yelled. “You don’t have a matching queen, so with Teresa’s jacks on the table, you can’t play any diamonds.”

Thomas groaned and pinched the bridge of his nose. After they’d gone in search of breakfast, they’d found Minho and Newt and, more surprisingly, several decks of cards the boys had managed to weasel out of the butler. They’d spent the morning showing Thomas and Teresa a card game they’d played in the Glade to pass the time. Teresa was picking up the rules just fine, but Thomas couldn’t understand a thing.

“But I have four tens!” he said, holding the cards up to show everyone.

“Your tens don’t mean a bloody thing unless you lay down an ace to trump Minho’s,” Newt said. The blond’s agitation grew with every round, and Thomas couldn’t help but wonder if all the Gladers took the game this seriously, or if it was just Newt. Thomas wouldn’t have been surprised if there was a banishment or two because of it, with the way the blond cast him exasperated looked every time he forgot the rules, or glared at Minho when he laughed at Newt’s attempts to explain the rules all over again.

“How can he get an ace when you’re over there hoarding them?” Minho said.

“Are you sayin’ I’m bloody salting?” Newt said.

“I’m sayin’ you’ve got twelve cards in your hand and only six on the field, so if you ain’t salting you’re sure as shuck losing.”

“Losing? _Losing_?” Newt said, snorting at Minho’s taunt. “You’ll see bloody losing when we get ‘round to me again.”

“Whatever. Anyway, if you’re done tellin’ Thomas how he can’t play his diamonds—which you can’t, by the way—then,” Minho said, laying down a queen and several other cards. “Queen and her knights. Bow down to your shuckin’ sovereign.”

Teresa let out a groan and tossed her unplayed cards on the floor. 

“Accuse me of saltin’ and then go pullin’ that klunk,” Newt said, throwing his cards down so hard they scattered. “Buggin’ unbelievable. I don’t even want to bloody look at ya.”

“I’ll make it up to you later, babe,” Minho said with a wink, his victorious grin not faltering in the slightest at Newt’s indignation.

“You’ll be lucky if I let you make anything up to me ever again.”

“Wait, is it over?” Thomas said, glancing around in confusion.

“Yes!” Teresa said. Her voice was almost as frustrated as Newt’s. “He’s the sovereign and none of us have any kings to move against him. Weren’t you listening?”

“This is the most confusing moment of my life,” Thomas said. “And I am including the entirety of my time in the Glade and waking up in that simulation chair.”

Newt rolled his eyes, picking up the slew of cards spread on the floor between the four of them. None of the four decks they’d gotten from Jasper matched, creating a collage of colors and patterns on the gray carpet. Thomas collected his own cards and handed them to Newt, who, muttering under his breath, began to shuffle.

“No way,” Thomas said, shaking his head. He stood up and hissed at the stiffness in his legs from their hours of card play. “I’m out. Think I’m gonna take a walk or something.”

Newt gave a grunt of acknowledgement, but Teresa didn’t give any indication that she heard him, too busy picking up cards and helping Newt shuffle, her tongue poking out of the corner of her mouth. Minho was the only one to give him a real response.

“Try not to get lost,” he said, smirking. “With the size of this place, we’d never find your body.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. That first scene/dream wasn't from Thomas's POV.
> 
> 2\. The card game they're playing isn't based on anything--I figure they'd have to have some way of entertaining themselves in the Glade, and maybe the creators would be nice enough to send up cards (hey, they sent Frypan's baking paper).
> 
> 3\. Sorry for the late update. I couldn't finish editing I fell asleep. Also, I wanted to let everyone know ahead of time that my updates will probably not be as frequent for this fic. I'm taking several time consuming classes this semester, and so I haven't been able to devote the time to this that I want to. It's more important to me to put out a quality chapter than one every week like clockwork. To be very clear, I am not and will not abandon this. Updates will probably just be more like every two weeks.
> 
> However, I do have some other one shots/loosely connected things that I might post on weeks I don't update, so be on the lookout for that.


	18. Blood, Sweat, and Tears

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Mothers and their children are in a category all their own. There's no bond so strong in the entire world. No love so instantaneous and forgiving.” ― Gail Tsukiyama, Dreaming Water

He found himself drawn back to the gardens. The smell of rotting fruit was as pungent as ever, so Thomas headed away from it, down a narrow, paved path that was criss crossed with weed filled cracks. He buried his hands in the pocket of his hooded sweatshirt. The day was as dismal as ever, the gray clouds hanging low, as if waiting for the perfect moment to bear down completely.

This place must have been beautiful once, when it was kept up. When it wasn’t thick with dead foliage.

He was glad to be out. Staying put for too long almost always meant that they were in the hands of WICKED. Even if they’d agreed to stay with the Golds for a while longer, Thomas couldn’t help feeling on edge about the whole situation. It was like there was a constant need to look over his shoulder and be on high alert.

He rounded a corner of the house and ducked back out of sight on instinct. He shook his head, silently chiding himself for his jumpiness, and walked back around the corner.

Across a narrow lawn, Butch and his troops stood near the outbuilding they had seen the vans disappear into days ago. They were packing supplies into the vans—guns, plastic toolboxes, and backpacks and body armor. They looked ready for a full out assault.

Butch was easy to spot, as the only member of the group without a mask on, though he wore body armor like the others. Thomas saw that he also had one of the large rifles with the odd ammunition slung over his shoulder. Last time they met, Butch had been weaponless.

The gun didn’t dissuade Thomas from approaching. Though the Golds seemed to be honest and forthright with them, he never felt right about grilling them for information. Maybe it was guilt over their lack of complete honesty about Gally. Butch, on the other hand…

The old man nodded to him as he neared, separating from the group to meet him halfway.

“Enjoying the high life, kid?” Butch asked.

“Can’t say I haven’t missed sleeping in a bed,” Thomas said. He nodded to the preparing group. “Off to kidnap more teenagers?”

“Just that, in fact,” Butch said, letting out a bark of laughter. “Miss V wants us to track down the rest of your buddies.”

“You’re going after them?” Thomas said. There was a part of him that expected to never see them again, and he was surprised to find they were actually trying to find them. “For real?”

“For real,’ Butch said. “How’s your Crank friend?”

“He’s not a Crank,” Thomas said, biting back the anger and insults that came at Butch’s words. If he was hoping to squeeze a little information from this guy, getting angry wouldn’t help that. “And’s he’s doing better. Ronald fixed him up some.

“Yeah. Sure the ol’ Doc fixed him up real good,” Butch said with a little nod of his head. Thomas frowned, but as he opened his mouth to speak, Butch looked over his shoulder and whistled. “Billy! Get your ass over here.”

One of the soldiers separated from the group and approached them. Dressed in the face mask and full body armor, it wasn’t until he spoke that Thomas recognized him as the guy who spoke to them after they ran out the fire door.

“Yeah?” Billy asked. His voice sounded almost robotic due to the mask he wore. It covered most of his face, so that only the piercing blue eyes were visible.

Butch clasped Billy on the shoulder as he came to a stop near the older man. Then, Butch gestured to Thomas.

“This here is that assignment you got all bitchy about this morning,” he said.

Billy sized him up, giving him a quick up and down look before pausing to look him in the eye.

“Doesn’t look like much of a threat,” Billy said, turning to Butch. “Still don’t see why I can’t have in on the fun stuff.”

“Looks can be deceiving,” Butch said. “And if the rumors about Sacramento pan out, you’ll have more fun than you can handle.”

“Whoa, threat?” Thomas said, holding his hands up to stop them as all ideas about prying for information were forgotten. “I’m not—we’re not—a threat to anybody.”

Butch quirked his eyebrows.

“People are capable of a lot of things, kid,” he said. “It’s my job to protect Miss V and her family. If you aren’t a threat, you have nothing to worry about.

“What makes you think I’m even a—”

Butch held up a hand to silence him.

“All that’s happening is that Billy’s hanging back to make sure things stay copacetic while I’m gone,” he said. “You can still hang out, run around, run away, hire a goddamn stripper for all I care. Long as it don’t hurt Miss V.”

Without waiting for a reply, Butch bid him goodbye with a nod of his head and a few words to Billy, then headed over to the vans. In a few minutes, they were loaded with supplies and people. Thomas watched them drive off, the sound of engines and crackling gravel fading quickly. He glanced at Billy, whose eyes were narrowed at the retreating vehicles. When they were finally out of sight, Billy reached behind his neck and Thomas heard a click. Seconds later, the young man pulled the mask off.

Except Billy was _not_ a young man. Young, certainly, no older than eighteen or nineteen, but hidden beneath the mask had been an unmistakably feminine jawline. She had thin lips and a wide nose, and she reached up to scratch her cheek.

“Christ, I hate that thing,” she said. She glanced at Thomas, waving the mask a little. “You mind keeping this quiet? I’m not supposed to, but, you know, you’re immune and all, yeah?”

Thomas nodded. With the mask gone, her voice was higher, though still husky. She was definitely not a boy.

“You are not a boy,” he said.

Billy looked at him and started laughing. He watched as she looped the strap of the mask around her belt, letting it fall against her leg, then reached into her pocket and pulled out a thin, silver case and a metal lighter.

“Really? Didn’t notice,” she said. She opened the case and pulled out a cigarette, sticking it between her lips before offering one to Thomas. He shook his head and Billy shrugged and pocketed the case. “Gotta say, the combat gear does make it a little harder to find a date. Maybe I shoulda listened to Butch when he warned me about cutting my hair.”

She lit the cigarette, taking in a deep breath, pausing, and then releasing a plume of smoke. Her gaze returned to Thomas, giving him another appraising look.

“No offense,” she said. “But you and your friends don’t look like you’re worth all the fuss you’ve kicked up.”

“We’re not,” Thomas said. “But try telling them that.”

Billy shrugged. “Well, with an escape like that, must be more to you than meets the eye.”

Thomas frowned. He didn’t consider their escape particularly noteworthy. A lucky break more than anything. All they had to do was walk out, after someone else took out all the—

“You think we did that,” he said, his eyes widening. Billy gave him a curious look, puffing away at her cigarette. “You think we shot our way out.”

“You telling me you didn’t?”

“No,” Thomas said, shaking his head. “We… they were already dead. Everyone there was already dead. We just… walked out.”

Billy stared at him, a crease forming in her forehead and her lips becoming a thin line.

“Butch’d like to head that, I bet,” was all she said.

“So wait… you thought we did all that,” Thomas said. “And you guys still brought us back here? When you thought we killed all those people?”

“They’re WICKED, not people,” Billy said with a shrug, and Thomas could tell from the casual, almost thoughtless way that she said it that she really, truly believed those words.

His mind flashed to the woman in the exam room. She begged him to help her. She pleaded, she bled, she hurt. She thought Thomas hated her. And maybe he should’ve, but he couldn’t find it in himself to. What role did she really play, what control did she have? Her, the man whom they had locked away in the lab, or any of those people who died that day?

What role did Vivian Gold play? Was she, with her monetary contributions, as much at fault as those who died? Was Thomas, for helping build the Maze and set this whole thing in motion?

Was Teresa?

He watched as the young women stubbed out her finished cigarette on the gravel before sticking the filter in her pocket. At least somebody was looking after the wellbeing of the grounds.

“Probably ought to be getting back to your buddies,” Billy said, smirking at Thomas. “You lot seemed a little codependent.”

Thomas rolled his eyes. “Yeah, well you try getting shucked over by WICKED and see how willing you are to be separated,” he said. “Besides, you don’t have to guard me. I’m not a threat.”

“Know you ain’t,” Billy said. “Not to us at least. But I gotta give Miss V a progress report anyway.”

They lapsed into silence as they began the journey back to the mansion, walking in tandem over the winding, paved paths of the Golds’ estate. Thomas worried his bottom lip between his teeth. His conversation with Butch hadn’t been as successful as he hoped, but maybe he could get something out of Billy.

“So what’s Sacramento?” he asked, recalling Butch’s mention of rumors relating to the word.

Billy frowned at him.

“They really did screw with your brains,” she said. “It’s a city. Ten, twelve hours south of us, California.”

“OK,” Thomas said, filing away the information for later and trying not to feel stupid for not knowing it. “So what rumors was he talking about?”

Billy gave him a long look, her eyes narrowed, before speaking.

“There’s a WICKED facility down there,” she said. “We’ve got some leaks that they might have some special subject.”

Thomas froze. Billy took a few more steps before realizing he’d stopped, and turned to look at him.

“What… what kind of special subject?” Thomas asked, licking his lips. There was one place his mind immediately jumped to, but it couldn’t be… Then again, his dreams, the woman in the exam room, and the Golds. Twice was a coincidence, but three times was a pattern. If this turned out to be related to Gally somehow, Thomas didn’t even think he’d be surprised.

Billy was frowning at him.

“Dunno. There’s only been vague stuff, and I don’t think I’ve seen half of it,” she said. “But if it’s WICKED, it can’t be good news, right?”

“…Right,” he muttered. He started walking again. If Billy sensed something was off with him, she didn’t say anything.

As they neared the rear entrance of the mansion, Billy stopped and fumbled with the mask on her belt. She got it off and put it over her face, making sure it was secure. Once again, her face was hidden.

They entered through the music room and Thomas found his eyes drawn to the piano once more. Perhaps, if they didn’t leave too soon, he’d steal away and try his hand at it, just to see if his fingers remembered better than his brain.

As they passed through the narrower hallway that ran along the stairs, a burst of movement forced Thomas to step back. A person—Thomas couldn’t make out their identity because of the struggle—had launched themselves at Billy, who let out a yelp as she was tackled to the floor and, brutally and unceremoniously, clocked in the head with the butt of a pistol. She was still.

There was no struggle, barely time for Thomas to see what happened.

Then, as he stepped forward to confront the attacker, pain burned bright in the back of his skull.

* * *

If there was one thing Veronica trusted, it was science. In the past, men, family, friends, and even herself had been a disappointment. But not science. Even when the results were undesirable, science could not be argued with.

And science was all she had left now.

It wasn’t the first time she had read the reports. They were summaries of the last hours of data before four of their most exemplary subjects went offline. A1, A2, and A5 were among the most valuable they had procured, giving them some of the most usable information on the difference between immune and non-immune brain structures. Their loss was a devastating blow to their research. Even A7’s data was fascinating, though they never had a chance to test their theory about the MD venom.

Veronica almost regretted watching the shift in his patterns as the Flare took hold. She remembered conducting his intake interview. With no immunity and no first level relatives, his chances of admittance were slim, but he charmed her, and Veronica made sure he got in. It was better than what awaited him otherwise.

She turned a page and sipped her glass of wine. It was her ritual after work. Come home with a stack of files, kick off her shoes and rub her feet through the stockings, and then lay back in a recliner with a glass (perhaps too full) of Malbec.

Kyle said it wasn’t healthy to bring her work home with her. Kyle didn’t know how much she had invested in the Trials, how much of her own blood, sweat, and tears, metaphorical and literal, went into them. Besides, he was in charge of the MD program, and he was the one who reported the anomaly to her. He couldn’t expect her to ignore that so easily. 

It was just a pity that they went offline before she could see if it was related.

In the apartment next door, she could hear the muffled sounds of jazz music. She didn’t mind it. It was easy for her to tune things out when she worked. She’d done it for years, from the chatter of students at Stanford to the busy background of a lab. The only thing she never tuned out was the baby, and maybe her doting was why there were so many problems later.

As the chief analyst, she was expected to know all the details, and it disturbed her that there would be so much data missing now. It had almost been a week, and they still had no leads on why the subjects went offline. For all they knew, they were dead. But nothing in the data indicated that. No spikes in chemicals or evidence of unusual levels of pain or fear. No, their chips simply stopped transmitting, all at once and all without warning.

She finished her wine and removed her glasses, rubbing her tired eyes. It was only seven, but the winter sun had disappeared long ago.

She’d read these files three times over today. Dozens, perhaps hundreds of times over the week. Somewhere in them, there had to be a clue. She just needed to find it, even if it meant another late night.

Veronica replaced her glasses and grabbed the next file.

She only paused for a brief second at the picture that stared back at her from the first page. She turned it quickly once she regained control of herself. It was a ritual, too. She wouldn’t compare the photograph to the one above the mantel. She wouldn’t, because, even if it was the same physical body, the child in that photograph above the mantel, the ones in the hall, and the very special one on her bedside table, was dead.

That was the price she paid for the sake of humanity. Veronica had put much of her blood into these Trials, and after such a sacrifice, she wouldn’t rest until there were results.

But, perhaps just for tonight, she would pour herself a second glass of wine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh hey, an on time update. You can thank Veronica for that. Her piece almost wrote itself.


	19. The Fell Clutch of Circumstance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Together, they would watch everything that was so carefully planned collapse, and they would smile at the beauty of destruction.” ― Markus Zusak, The Book Thief

Teresa wished her hands were free just so she could rip Jasper’s smug face off. The butler had burst into their room in the middle of their card game, held them at gunpoint, and bound their hands with zip ties. After that, he’d forced them all into the foyer downstairs and disappeared. They’d heard nothing since. 

She relaxed her shoulders and slumped against the wall. For the last ten minutes, she'd been pulling and twisting her hands in an effort to get free. She couldn’t feel her fingers anymore.

Worse, she couldn’t feel Tom. She reached out for him while she struggled, calling out between each twist and pull. 

_Tom._

_Tom._

_Tom!_

But she had nothing to show for her efforts but numb fingers and one hell of a headache.

“I told you so,” Minho said. It was the fourth time he’d said it since Jasper left them—not that she was counting. “We shoulda left this shuck place days ago, but did anyone listen to me?”

“Slim your trap,” Newt said. The blond’s swollen, bloody lip was the only evidence of his failed attempt at resistance. “It ain’t helpin’.”

“You slim it,” Minho said. “Shuck, maybe we should try the doors again. Have you made any progress?”

“No. Like I told ya the last twenty shuckin’ times, I can barely feel my bloody hands,” Newt said. “These things ain’t—”

“Slim it!” Minho said, his voice hushed. A few seconds later, Teresa heard footsteps coming down the hall. Jasper emerged from around the staircase, and he wasn’t alone.

“Tom!” Teresa said as both relief and fear flooded her. The man was dragging Thomas, her friend’s feet scraping over the floor as he hung limply. For a moment, she feared he was dead, but then she heard a moan as the butler dropped him to the ground. She saw his chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm, and, although his hands were bound and he seemed to be unconscious, he looked alright.

She glared at Jasper, trying to put all her anger and hatred into a single look.

The man had forgone his usual tuxedo, instead wearing a pair of cargo pants, a thick leather jacket, and combat boots. Whatever he was up to, it was clear that his guise as a wealthy couple’s butler no longer served him. 

“What the shuck did you do to him?” Minho said, his teeth clenched as his gaze darted between Tom and their captor. 

Jasper only looked at the Asian boy and smirked.

“Not him you ought to be worried about, is it?” he said, then ducked back down the hallway. 

Teresa wasted no time sitting up and crawling on her knees to Thomas.

“Tom?” she said again, echoing the name telepathically. If one didn’t work, perhaps the other would. The brunet’s brow furrowed, as if in concentration or concern, but he didn’t stir, even as she called his name again. 

She sighed. If only she could touch him, run her fingers through his hair and make sure he was okay. Reassure him that she was there. Maybe, through their link, he could sense her presence anyway. She hoped so.

It was only a minute or so later that Jasper returned, this time dragging along another body. At first, Teresa thought it might have been one of the Golds, but as the man came into view, the gear and filter mask proved the person to be one of Butch’s soldiers.

Which meant the Golds were still unaccounted for, something that troubled her. Their betrayal she could take, or their deaths, but being uncertain of the role they played made her more uneasy than anything.

But the sight of this soldier raised a new concern. Butch had two dozen men at his disposal. Could Jasper have taken them all out? It seemed unlikely that one guy could take out a group of trained men, but they certainly weren’t in the picture.

“If you’re gonna kill us, can you get it the shuck over with?” Minho said. “Old age is beatin’ you to it.”

Teresa glared at him as Newt nudged him none too kindly with his foot. Jasper regarded the Runner with a tilt of his head, then walked forward and crouched down in front of Minho so that they were eye level.

“I don’t think old age is anything you’ll have to worry about,” Jasper said. “But if your vote’s on killing, that brings it up two to one in favor.”

“What the shuck are you—”

“See, Mimi up there,” Jasper said, pointing toward the ceiling. “She doesn’t want to leave witnesses. Says it’ll put WICKED right up on our trail before we can finish. Me? Don’t see the point in killing for no good reason. Hell, might clue WICKED in even more.”

“WICKED?” Minho said, frowning. In the brief moments they were left alone, they had surmised that Jasper was a member of the organization, but now he seemed to be speaking about them as if they were an enemy. On top of that, he had a partner. “Aren’t you—”

Jasper shushed him and stood, heading for the staircase. He stopped, one gloved hand on the banister.

“Funny thing about WICKED,” he said, turning and looking at each of them, as if trying to commit their faces to memory. “They never gave us your faces. Guess making you all nothing but an ID number is how we slept at night. Easier to do what we did when you’re not a person, feel me? Just subjects, mice in a maze…”

His voice trailed off, and something about it startled her. There was something in his tone that was almost… regretful.

“S’pose I’m just trying to say it’s good to finally put a face to your work,” he said. His eyes fell on Minho. “I came here looking for leads on the Architect, but you’re a real bonus, kid.”

“Architect?” Minho said, the word barely more than a whisper. If Jasper heard it, he didn’t care enough to respond, and disappeared up the staircase.

Teresa sighed and closed her eyes. Her headache was getting worse, and she unconsciously tried to lift her hands to massage her temples, but was swiftly reminded of their bound state. 

“What did he mean, we’re a bonus?” Minho said.

“Not we,” Newt said. “You.”

At that, Teresa glanced at the pair. When Jasper had taken them down here and forced them to sit, the boys had scooted so close to each other that their shoulders touched. They hadn’t moved since. It probably wasn’t even a conscious decision on their part, but there was security in intimacy—in simple human contact. 

She glanced down and found that, at some point, she had pressed her leg against Tom’s side.

“Me?” Minho shook his head. “He meant all of us.”

“He was looking at you,” she said. “Only at you.”

His eyes widened. Newt leaned his head closer and whispered something into Minho’s ear. The Asian boy tried to glare at him, but the angle didn’t allow it to be effective, so instead he muttered something back. Within moments, they were in some kind of heated, whispered debate, one she was too far away to make out all but the occasional swear.

She didn’t like being out of the loop, but Newt had a proven track record with the volatile Runner, and if he considered this important enough to keep their words private, she’d defer to him.

And then she could focus her attention on Tom, on getting him awake before Jasper returned.

 _Tom?_ She said, trying to keep her psychic voice calm and quiet, in spite of the thrum inside her that told her she was on the edge of panic.

Tom frowned again, deeper this time, and his lips twitched.

 _Tom!_ She said again, just a little louder this time.

“Stop yelling,” Tom mumbled, shifting his legs.

“Tom, I’m not yelling,” Teresa said, not allowing her joy at his return to consciousness stop her from doing what needed to be done. She had a suspicion that he was sporting a headache to rival hers, but there was no time to dawdle. “But I can if that’s what it takes to get you up.”

Thomas opened his eyes, squinting first at the ceiling and then at her. His eyes widened as he grew more accustomed to the light and realized that something was very, very wrong.

“Teresa?” he said. He sat up, wincing and, for a moment, looking as if he might puke. It took him a few seconds to speak again. “What happened? Who—”

“The butler in the foyer with the gun,” Minho said. He scooted away from Newt, the blond throwing him a dirty look as their conversation ended. “What the shuck happened to you?”

Tom frowned, his eyes glazing over as he stared at nothing in particular.

“My head,” he said. “I must’ve… Jasper? He must've hit me in the back of the head.”

“Your head?” Newt said. “Turn ‘round and let me see.”

“What the shuck are you gonna do?” Minho said, even as Thomas shifted to obey Newt’s command. “Kiss it better?”

“Oh, I’m sorry, which one of us spent time as a bloody Med-j—ouch, Tommy.”

Ouch indeed. There was no blood or broken skin, but there was a bump clearly visible on the back of Thomas’s head.

“No wonder you were knocked out,” Teresa said. “Do you remember anything before?”

“Not… not a lot,” Tom said. “It’s all fuzzy. I went for a walk, and I… I talked to…”

His eyes went wide as he looked around. His gaze fell on the unconscious soldier and he let out a sigh of relief. He nodded his head toward the still form.

“I was talking to her,” he said. “After Butch and the rest of the soldiers left.”

“Butch left?” Teresa said.

“Yeah. Yeah,” Thomas said. “He left to look for the others.”

“That explains why this shank waited until now to attack us,” Minho said. “Could get away with it easier without a bunch of guns pointed at him.”

“Too right,” a voice said from the staircase. They all whipped around to see Jasper descending, along with a girl who couldn’t have been more than fourteen or fifteen. She had black hair that blazed around her head in curls, and her dark skin was freckled.

“Wouldn’t do to make this affair messy,” Jasper said. He was holding several papers in one hand, but Teresa couldn’t make out any of the writing. “Really, I think we all want this to go as smoothly as possible.”

He glanced at Thomas as he said that part.

“I do apologize for your head,” he said. “We weren’t expecting you to be there.”

“Feeling’s mutual,” Tom mumbled. 

“Right then. We’re all wrapped up here, so we best get this caravan back on the circuit,” he said. He turned to Minho and motioned for the Asian boy to stand. “Come on, now. No use dawdling.”

Newt stiffened and Minho scoffed.

“You aren’t seriously taking us with you,” he said, glancing from Jasper to the others.

“Of course not,” Jasper said. “I’m taking _you_ with me.”

“Like hell,” Newt said, using the wall to help him stand. The girl had a gun trained on his chest by the time he was upright.

Teresa weighed her options. She wasn’t far from the girl’s feet, and if she moved fast enough… But her arms were useless, and her legs were still folded under her. If she body slammed her, there was no telling if she’d pull the trigger, intentionally or not, and who, if anyone, she might hit.

“For shuck’s sake,” Minho hissed, looking up at Newt. “Sit down.”

Newt didn’t move, didn’t pay the girl or the gun or Minho any attention. His eyes were trained on Jasper, and Jasper’s on him. 

“Best do as your boyfriend says,” Jasper said. “I’d hate for Miss Vivian to have to explain all the blood to a new butler.”

Still, Newt didn’t back down. His jaw was clenched so tight that a muscle twitched every few seconds. Teresa could feel the speed of her heart increase, and it didn’t help that Tom was projecting. He did it more than he probably thought, but it was rarely anything more than feelings or the occasional word.

Right now, it was panic, and a word. Bad. Repeated over and over again.

Through it all, the tension and the white noise, she looked at Minho. They locked eyes.

She knew he didn’t like her. He didn’t trust her, and, if she was being honest, he didn’t have many reasons to. But she trusted him. She didn’t always like him or the way he led, but she trusted him. He was loyal, strong, and fair, and Teresa knew that was why WICKED had given him the designation of Leader. No one would go as far, or run as long, or try as hard to guarantee not only his own survival, but that of others.

And that’s why the look in his eyes scared her.

Slowly, so he didn’t spook the girl and make the whole thing worse, Minho rose to his feet. Newt glanced at him with confusion swimming in his eyes, but Minho ignored him.

“Why me?”

“You have something I need,” Jasper said.

“I don’t have _anything_ ,” Minho said. “None of us do. We don’t even own the clothes on our backs.”

“Let me clarify—You _know_ something I need.”

“I can’t believe you,” the girl—Mimi, if Teresa remembered right—hissed, glancing from Minho to Newt, as if analyzing who was the bigger threat. “You’re just going to spill everything when what we should do is—”

“I already took it off the table, Meems,” Jasper said. “We get what we came for, we leave. In, out, done.”

“You’re not bloody taking him,” Newt said.

“Kid,” Jasper said. “She’s willing to give you a lot more than a fat lip, so I recommend you accept what I’m leaving you with and sit your ass down and shut up.”

Newt’s lips curled back in a snarl, but before he could spit a reply, Minho spoke, his voice unusually calm and controlled.

“If I go with you, what happens to them after we leave?”

Newt looked at him, his mouth agape. It took him a few tries to make a sound.

“You can’t be bloody—”

“What happens to them?” Minho asked again.

“Well, if they don’t get themselves out—and I imagine they will, given more time and fewer guns,” Jasper said with a shrug. “Miss Vivian has a girl who drops off the laundry. She’s due tonight and she has a key.”

Minho frowned, worrying his bottom lip between his teeth.

“Doesn’t matter if you believe me,” Jasper said. “The fact is, I could’ve killed them a dozen times over. I didn’t.”

He pointed to the still unconscious form of the solider.

“I didn’t even kill the biggest threat,” he said. “I don’t want bloodshed any more than you do.”

Minho snorted.

“Again, it doesn’t matter if you believe me. One way or another, you’re coming with us.” As if on cue, Mimi cocked the gun and aimed it more firmly at Newt’s chest.

That, Teresa was sure, made more of an impact on Minho than any words could.

 _We can’t let them take him,_ she said to Thomas, though she knew, between Mimi’s gun and their bound hands, they couldn’t put up a real fight.

 _Do we have a choice?_ Tom said, and Teresa wanted to shout at him for saying it. They couldn’t, after getting so far, let another one of them go. Not Minho, not now. But she didn’t shout, and she didn’t get angry, because she could feel the strangled resentment in every word he sent to her. Admitting the truth of their plight hurt him as much as it hurt her to hear it.

She bit back a cry as she pulled hard on the restraints. _Ugh, what use are these stupid telepathy powers if we can only use them on each other?_  

“You’re a reasonable man, Flare or no. You know what choice to make.”

And Teresa could see that Minho did. Long before he had the chance to speak, she knew the choice he would make. He had nothing to lose. Nothing but his friends, and all he needed was the reassurance that what he was doing would help them. 

“Minho,” Newt said, his voice tight, the name a plea. “You can’t. They… they… we…”

The blond’s voice trailed off weakly, and Teresa could see the rapid rise and fall of his chest and the wetness of his eyes. Newt was losing it. He was panicking.

“Thomas,” Minho said, not looking away from Jasper. “Your brain better not be so shucked that you forgot your promise.” 

“You always,” Newt said. “You always gotta be the bloody martyr, don’t ya?

“Don’t do that, ya shuckface,” Minho said. His words weren’t shaky and cracking like Newt’s, but they lacked any bite. “Just as heartless as me, yeah?”

“Don’t…” he said, swallowing thickly as tears finally spilled down his cheeks

For the first time since the showdown began, Minho looked at Newt. Of all things, he smiled. Just a tiny upturn of the lips as his eyes found the blond's.

Then, he leaned up and pressed their lips together. It didn’t last long, and maybe Newt was shocked or maybe he sensed the finality in the kiss, because he didn’t try to follow the Asian boy as he pulled away.

Goodbye kisses were for train stations, airports, and the front porch as your lover left for work. They were given with an ‘I love you,’ ‘I’ll see you soon,’ and ‘Don’t forget the dry cleaning.’ They weren’t meant for gunpoint, or kidnapping, or hideous disease. They weren’t meant for moments when time was measured in seconds and the future was less a blank page waiting to be written and more the end of the book.

Goodbye kisses weren't meant for this, because for this there would never be enough time for everything that kiss needed to say.

Teresa’s throat burned as she held back her own emotions as Minho stepped away from Newt, backward toward Jasper and Mimi. Jasper grabbed him by the arm, and the trio backed toward the front door. 

Teresa followed their movements, looking for any sign that their captors would renege on their promise to leave them unharmed. But they did nothing more than slowly back away, their own eyes alert for any movement.

Teresa was so focused on them that it took her a moment to realize Newt spoke.

“I can’t…” he said, his voice quiet, and yet cutting clearly through the tension of the room. She snapped her gaze to him. He hadn’t moved since Minho broke the kiss, his eyes locked on the floor as he slowly shook his head.

“I can’t,” he said again, the words taking on a hard edge as he looked at the retreating forms. He took a step forward and they stopped. Jasper held up a hand in warning as Mimi aimed her gun at him.

“Don’t be stupid, blondie,” Jasper said.

“I can't,” Newt said. He took another step, and then he was striding forward with purpose. Teresa saw the way Mimi widened her stance, the way she squared her shoulder and how her hands readjusted their grip on the gun, and she knew that she only had seconds to act.

As if of one mind, she and Tom slammed themselves into Newt’s legs as the gunshot and the scream tore through the air.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the length between updates. I've been putting in extra hours at work over the last couple weeks, and since I already work 65 hours a week on the regular... it's a lot of hours. I can't promise when my next update will be, since I have midterms the next few weeks, but I do have a much better grasp of the coming scenes, so I expect them to be written faster.


	20. Wrath and Tears

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Whatever it is you're seeking won't come in the form you're expecting.” ― Haruki Murakami

For a moment, Thomas was positive that the bullet had hit him. The world was pain. Sound so loud it was _bright_ , like his skull was being split in two with an axe. A scream. The crash of glass.

But it was a different kind of pain than the searing tear of a bullet wound. It wasn’t concentrated, more general as every part of him was jostled. It was the movement, the sound of the gunshot, the fact that Teresa was kneeing him in the head as they both tangled with a trashing, kicking, _seething_ Newt on the floor, who yelled out obscenities and demands for them to let him up.

“The hell, Mimi! Shooting at a goddamn kid in handcuffs?”

Newt!

“Are you _shucked_ , slinthead?”

Thomas shouldered Teresa away from him, backing away from the tangled pile she and Newt made to take a look.

No blood. No pain on the blond’s face. Just anger, tear tracks, and despair as he tried to get back to his feet.

The bullet had missed Newt, missed all of them, shattering a mirror behind them and sending a thousand shining crystals of glass to the floor.

He glanced over at Jasper and his companion, just in time to see the butler wrench the pistol from the girl’s hands, his eyes scanning the struggling teenagers as his other hand held on, white knuckled, around Minho’s arm. The Asian boy’s teeth were gnashed as he struggled in Jasper’s grasp, desperately trying to go to Newt’s side.

And he probably would have succeeded too, if Mimi hadn’t pulled out a knife and held it to his throat.

“Careful with your damn blades, girl,” Jasper said, his voice sharp. He leveled the gun at Newt. “See what you did, blondie? Ruined a nice old mirror and made everything far nastier than it had to be.”

The blond let out a string of curses, but Thomas scooted closer, throwing his legs over Newt’s, and together he and Teresa prevented Newt from getting to his feet.

“Shucking hell, Newt, just stop it!” Minho said. “Teresa, kick him in the freakin’ face if you have to.”

Newt went quiet and still, and Thomas backed away once more. The blond’s eyes were not focused on the gun Jasper had trained on them, but rather on Minho, Mimi, and the knife that connected them.

Jasper smirked.

“That’s right,” he said. “Pull another stunt like that and Mimi’ll be more than happy to open him from ear to ear. Like I said, he’s only a bonus.”

Jasper tightened his hold on Minho’s arm and took a half step back, the girl moving with him in tandem, pulling Minho along.

“Really should’ve left it at that lovely goodbye,” Jasper said as they continued to back away. “Would have been a better memory.”

* * *

Dust floated in the air. They were still on the ground, all of them, separated, and their breaths long since caught, but their minds still reeling, their ears still echoing with the sound of car doors, an engine, and crackling gravel. Newt was motionless, staring at the doorway through which Minho had disappeared, the tears dried, leaving his cheeks angry red.

Teresa kept sending worried glances his way, her eyes flittering between Thomas, Newt, and the bullet hole. But she didn’t speak, aloud or inside his head.

Thomas swallowed. They’d dodged a bullet—quite literally—but they still needed to get out of this, and to do that, they all needed to work on it. He wasn’t about to hedge his bets on a laundry girl.

“Newt?” he said. The boy gave no reply, no sign that he’d even heard Thomas. “Newt? C’mon, I know… I know you… We still gotta do something about this.”

Newt’s eyes snapped to him, and Thomas saw a spark of insanity in them, something he’d only seen when he thought his friend was half past the Gone. Newt didn’t lose his composure easily, and it was usually only when someone he cared for was in real danger. Or… beyond danger. The only times he could remember the guy freaking out like this was after the lightning storm in the Scorch and when Alby threw himself to the Grievers.

Both of those times, Minho had been there to ground him. Minho’s words, cold and blunt as they were, had been what calmed Newt.

“What?” he said. “What do you want us to bloody do, Thomas?”

He was taken aback, unable to remember the last time Newt had called him anything other than Tommy. 

“Gee, what’d I do to deserve that?” he said, trying to break the tension. “I feel like I just got in trouble with my mom or something. I guess ‘Thomas’ is as close to a full name as I got.”

Newt sent him a glare that made Thomas want to shrink back into the wall, and when he spoke, it was through clenched teeth.

“I’m not your bloody mum,” he said. “An’ if ya want to ‘do something’ how ‘bout you stop flapping your yap and try gettin’ your hands loose?”

As if to emphasize his point, Newt started pulling on the restraints.

Teresa glanced at him, and they silently agreed that, for the moment, it was their best—or only—course of action available.

After several minutes of twisting, pulling, tugging, and, Thomas was pretty sure, almost dislocating his shoulder, he was no closer to freedom. The skin on his wrists stung, but the pain wasn’t enough to compare to the headache that plagued him.

Newt looked no better off, his jaw clenched as he tried to free his arms. 

Teresa, however, had abandoned wrestling with her bindings, and instead was curling herself into a ball, pulling her knees close to her chest and stretching her arms out. Her face twisted into a grimace and, then, in a sudden jerk of movement, her arms swung up.

In front of her body.

“Yes!”

“About bloody time,” Newt said. “Go find a knife or somethin’.”

Teresa paid Newt’s acerbity no mind, pushing herself into a standing position. She left through the hallway that, if Thomas recalled right, would eventually circle back to the kitchen.

Sure enough, a few minutes later, Teresa emerged through the previously locked door, holding a steak knife, hands free.

She knelt next to him, and he sighed as his hands were released. It was then that he caught sight of her wrists, In thin bands, the skin was red and raised, and blood—both fresh and dried—was visible.

“Your wrists,” he said, reaching out to catch her hand before she could pull back.

She glanced down at them, as if seeing it for the first time, and shook her head.

“Don’t worry about it,” she mumbled, pulling her hand away from his and turning toward Newt.

She paused, fiddling with the knife in her hand,

“What the shuck’re you waitin’ for?” Newt spat after a few seconds of hesitation.

Teresa backed up a few paces, and Newt turned and glared at her, then at Thomas, as if expected his support. 

 _We need to make sure he won’t do something like that again,_ she said to him. _He could have gotten any one of us hurt—killed._

 _So what?_ He said. _Leave him tied up?_

“Bloody cut me free, Teresa,” Newt said.

Teresa gave Thomas one final look, her lips tight.

“Newt… I can’t. I can’t until I know you won’t go pulling another stunt like that,” she said. 

“What are you even yapping about?”

“She could have killed you, Newt!”

“I don’t care!”

“Maybe you don’t care, but I care. Thomas cares. Minho certainly cares,” Teresa said. Newt flinched when she spoke Minho’s name, and while there was no outright cruelty in her tone, there was no sympathy. Thomas didn’t know if she felt at all sorry for Newt, but if she did, she was hiding it well. “And how do you think it would have made him feel, if you’d been shot, killed, after he gave himself to them to protect us—to protect _you_?”

Newt was silent, and the previous hard set of his jaw seemed to relax. He pressed his lips together and held them until they were nothing but a thin, white line, and Thomas thought he could see the glassy appearance of tears returning to the blond’s eyes.

“I need him back.”

“We’ll _get_ him back,” Teresa said, and this time her voice was soft, gentle as she placed a hand on Newt’s shoulder. “All of us. We just need to do it the right way. No running in blind or without a plan. No walking into bullets.”

Newt nodded, and Teresa cut his bonds. He ducked his head to rub his wrists, but Thomas was fairly sure that was simply a pretense to allow him to hide his face while he composed himself. He swiped the back of his hand over his eyes, then looked up.

“Well… what’s the buggin’ plan, then?”

Teresa nodded, satisfied.

“I’m going to go find Vivian. I don’t think he hurt her, and she’s our best lead to figuring out where he’s taking Minho. I want you,” she nodded at Newt. “To go play Mr. Med-jack with the soldier over there.”

She looked at Thomas, and the confidence that the previous declarations came in wavered. She looked unsure as she gave the next order.

“Thomas, I think you should help Newt.”

“Oh please,” Newt rolled his eyes. “I don’t need a babysitter. What am I gonna do, go limpin’ after their bloody car?”

“That has nothing to do with it,” Teresa said, but Thomas was pretty sure it was a lie. “I know you’re not that stupid. But Thomas knows her—that might help if she wakes up.”

Newt gave a jerk of his head as consent and stood up, walking over to Billy’s still form. Teresa looked at his retreating back, then at Thomas, her eyebrows raised.

_Talk to him, Tom._

Thomas watched as she retreated up the stairs. Talk to him? What exactly did you say to a guy whose boyfriend was just kidnapped by a traitorous butler?

He sighed, then took a few deep breathes, trying to will away the ache in his skull, and turned to follow Newt to Billy’s side.

The blond held Billy’s wrist in his hand, his fingers seeking a pulse. The hand, he noticed, was shaking, but Newt’s expression was one of forced calm, despite the tear tracks and red-rimmed eyes. 

“What happened to her?” Newt said, not looking up. His eyes were trained on the woman’s chest, watching the steady rise and fall of her breath through the body armor.

“Didn’t see much before they got me,” Thomas said. He touched the back of his head, where the lump was still tender, a sharp spike of pain making him wince. “Just a struggle. I figure she got hit in the head like me.”

Newt nodded, then moved so he could feel around Billy’s head. He frowned as he gently touched her, then he switched to her neck, pulling aside the high collar of the combat uniform.

“She doesn’t look hurt. No bumps on her head or marks on her neck. Coulda been drugged or maybe a choke hold,” he said. He straightened up, leaning back. “There’s nothing I can treat. Did Teresa leave the knife? Ought to cut her hands free at least.”

Thomas looked around, and retrieved the knife from where Teresa had left it on the floor. He passed it to Newt and the blond cut the plastic tie. Thomas pocketed the knife once Newt passed it back.

“I can’t do much for her,” he said. “But I wanna have a look at your head. Put some bloody ice on it at least.”

Newt stood and motioned for Thomas to follow.

Even if Jasper was a rotten traitor, he kept a clean kitchen. The appliances, counters, and even floors shined in the dull light coming through the window.

“If it’s bad enough,” Newt said, marching up to a counter and opening and closing drawers. “We’ll have to raid Ronald’s office for supplies. But we can ice it at least. Sit down.”

Thomas pulled out a high stool that was shoved under an offshoot of the island and sat. He watched as Newt found a few towels and then grabbed a bowl and filled it with ice before setting his supplies on the counter and pulling out another stool.

“This is gonna hurt, isn’t it?” Thomas said with a grimace.

“Probably not as much as getting the bloody thing,” Newt said. He grabbed a towel and dumped a bunch of ice cubes in the center, then pinched the corners together. “Tilt your head down.”

Thomas did as he was told and hissed at the first press of the makeshift icepack against the back of his skull. Newt didn’t pull back at the sound, but held firm. 

“Hold this here,” Newt said, grabbing Thomas’s hand and guiding it to the icepack. He lifted his head and watched the tall boy move to the fridge and pull out two cans of chilled soda. He opened one and placed it in front of Thomas, then sat next to him and opened the other.

For a long time, the only sounds that cut through the mansion were the fizz of the soda and Thomas’s occasional hisses. He wanted to talk to Teresa, see if her hunt for Vivian had been successful yet, but every time he tried to focus his mental voice, new stabs of pain bounced around his head.

“What did you promise him?”

Newt’s voice cut through the silence and Thomas spun to look at him so fast that he fumbled the icepack. Several cubes fell to the floor and shattered before he realigned his grip.

“What?” he said.

“When Minho… He said you better not forget your promise,” Newt explained. He wasn’t looking at Thomas, his eyes locked on his hands, which were wrapped around the can of soda. They had stopped shaking. “What was it?”

“Oh,” Thomas said. He looked away and took a sip of his soda. Should he tell Newt the truth, that Minho’d made him promise to stay by the blond’s side? He didn’t really have a choice, after the promise they’d made to each other.

“He made me swear not to leave you alone,” he said. 

Newt paused with his soda raised halfway to his lips.

“Bloody…” he started, but didn’t finish. He shook his head and a look of frustration passed over his face.

“He was very specific,” Thomas went on. He tightened his hold on the icepack. He didn’t want to push Newt, but… knowing all he could would help, wouldn’t it? No secrets.

“That right?” Newt said. He started to move again, finishing raising the can and taking a gulp.

“Made me swear not to leave you alone for as much as a second,” he said. He lowered the icepack. It still hurt, but the pain was numbed now. He set it down and flattened his hands on the counter, leveling his gaze at Newt.

“Why would he ask me that, Newt?”

He wished the blond would meet his eyes. When he spoke, his voice was small, quiet, like admitting a shameful secret.

“Because he doesn’t trust me.”

“That’s not true,” Thomas said without a second’s hesitation. He placed a hand on Newt’s shoulder. “You know that can’t be true. He trusts you more than anyone.”

“No,” Newt shook his head. “He _relies_ on me more than anyone. He talks to me more than anyone. He doesn’t trust me. Not with anything that matters.”

“Newt—”

“No!” Newt said, shrugging off Thomas’s hand. He withdrew like his hand had been burnt. “I’ve known him a hell of a lot longer than you, Tommy, alright? I know what I’m sayin’ when I say he doesn’t bloody trust me.”

Thomas bit his lips together. As much as he wanted to argue, he couldn’t. As close as he felt to Newt, and to Minho, he knew that he was a relative newcomer. He’d had mere weeks with them, and during that time they had endured immeasurable tragedy and adversity together. But Newt and Minho had years of constant companionship.

“Ya remember the Flat Trans? Ya remember how Minho made you go last?” Newt said. Thomas nodded his head. “Only reason he didn’t shove me through first was ‘cause he didn’t buggin’ know what he’d find.”

Whether Minho trusted him or not, Thomas had no doubt Newt felt that he didn’t.

He just needed to know why.

“Why wouldn’t he trust you?”

“Because he’s scared,” Newt said, shrugging his shoulders and shaking his head. “Or guilty. Or both. I don’t bloody know.”

“He’s scared of what? Guilty about what?” Thomas said. He sighed. “You can’t do this right now, Newt. No secrets, remember? We agreed, all of us, and that’s even more important now.”

“I don’t think this is what Minho had in mind when he proposed that.”

“Doesn’t matter.”

Newt sighed and shifted. He hadn’t met Thomas’s eyes since they’re been alone, and that made Thomas want to stop forcing the issue.

But he had to know. He suspected enough, between Minho’s insistence to not leave the blond alone to the odd bits and pieces of reality mixed into his simulation.

He needed to hear it from Newt, as painful as those words would be for both of them.

“The last time he trusted me with something important, I shucked up,” Newt said. The words came out fast, like he was forcing them out before he could stop himself. But then, he looked at Thomas, looked him in the eyes for the first time since everything happened, and his words became more deliberate. “Bad. And I don’t want to hear another bloody word about it.”

Newt pushed back from the counter, his can tipping as he let go, spilling fizzy, brown liquid over the white marble. He turned and marched back toward the foyer.

Thomas got to his feet and followed, and when he reached the foyer, Newt was standing there, his eyes glued on the shattered mirror. Thomas approached him slowly, and once again rested his hand on the taller boy’s shoulder, all thoughts of having his suspicions confirmed forgotten.

“Look,” he said, then paused to lick his lips and draw in a breath. He wasn’t one for words of comfort or reassurance, but he knew he had to try—for Newt’s sake, and because he had made a promise to Minho. While that promise may have spoke of physical presence, he knew, at its core, it meant not to leave the blond alone in any way.

“I know it’s not easy,” he started again. “Before the Scorch, when they took Teresa and stopped us from talking to each other, it felt like a part of me was missing. I know it’s not the same thing ‘cause her and I, we aren’t even… but know it’s hard, OK? To have a piece of you ripped away like that.”

Thomas paused, but Newt didn’t say anything.

“But I promise you, we’ll get him back,” Thomas said. “If it’s the last thing I do, we’ll find Minho.”


	21. It's a Revival

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “He envied the bark, which had been, in the course of one lifetime, both forest and fire. One endured; one destroyed.” ― Karen Joy Fowler, Sarah Canary

The gun they had carried all the way from the WICKED facility was wedged between the mattress and the boxspring. The hiding place was cliche, and probably impractical, but Teresa heaved a sigh of relief when her fingers closed around the handle.

She didn’t know how many bullets she had left, but even an empty gun gave her a feeling of security, far beyond that of the steak knife she had plundered from the kitchen, a twin to the one she had left with the boys.

After tucking the firearm into the waistband of her pants, she debated where to start her search. She had no idea which rooms belonged to the Golds. She hadn’t seen them in the hallway that housed the guest rooms, but she had seen them head upstairs after dinners, and so she traced her steps back to the staircase, heading down the opposite hallway.

The doors that lined it were closed, and she opened each one hesitantly, one hand on the knob and the other on the handle of the gun. She knew that there probably weren’t any hidden attackers, but she wasn’t about to let herself be vulnerable again. Each door passed without incident, each opened with caution and the dread of what she might find.

Would Jasper have gone as far as to kill a sweet old couple like the Golds? Or, had that charm been an act, and they themselves were accessories? Teresa did not know which she feared more.

Each room revealed only dishevelment. An abandoned bedroom or office in disrepair or a room that looked like it was meant for nothing more than the storage of dust.

A dozen or so doors in, she found what she suspected might be Jasper’s room, but didn’t enter. As much as she wanted to explore it, to perhaps gain some insight into the man who had attacked them, she knew it wasn’t the time. She noted its location for later, between a vase of blue and white porcelain and a painting of a river, its waters aflame with the sunset,

It was only a few more doors before she heard a muffled bang. She paused, her hand poised over a doorknob. 

Another bang.

She backed away from the door, following the sound down the hallway. The bangs grew louder, until she found the room that must have been the source. She pressed her ear to the door.

More bangs, like the pounding of something soft against wood.

Hand still firmly wrapped around the pistol, she opened the door.

Vivian Gold, still in her dressing gown, sat in a chair, her arms and legs bound to the furniture with tape. More tape covered her mouth, and she regarded Teresa with a fearful expression before her eyes softened. Teresa took a quick look around the room and, seeing no one else, let go of the gun before heading in.

“Sorry about this,” she said as she ripped the tape from the woman’s mouth.

Teresa would never have applied the word ‘tough’ to Miss Vivian. She was elegant, surely, and Teresa didn’t doubt that she was a strong person. But ‘tough’ didn’t seem to fit her.

Until, that is, she didn’t even flinch as the tape was pulled from her skin. No, Miss Vivian didn’t flinch, only spat, then spoke, her prim and proper accent never faltering as she let loose the longest, most detailed string of curses Teresa had ever heard.

Teresa almost laughed, the crass nature of the rant seeming absurd coming from the woman who was the very definition of high society and elegance.

But she didn’t laugh, and she doubted she even could given the circumstances. Instead, she knelt and cut the duct tape that bound each of the woman’s ankles to the chair. Then, she did the same for the wrists.

“Are you quite alright, dear?” Miss Vivian said, pulling away a stray piece of tape from her skin as she straightened and stood. A hand grabbed Teresa’s wrist, which was raw, red, and bloody.

She pulled it back.

“I’m fine,” Teresa said. “But Thomas got hurt, and Minho…”

"Minho what?"

"Jasper took him. I... We tried, but we couldn't stop him. We were all tied up and they had a gun and..."

Teresa’s voice trailed off as she noticed the hard glint in the woman's eyes. Instead of saying anything, Vivian circled around the chair to an antique oak desk, where she grabbed a bulky looking telephone. She flicked a switch on the side and a crackling came in through the speaker. Seconds later, a voice joined the static, and Teresa recognized it. Butch.

“Go,” the man said. A single word, and yet she knew it was more of a request than a command.

Miss Vivian glanced at her, as if debating what to say. Her internal argument didn’t last long, however, and the woman licked her lips.

“We have a situation, Shelley,” she said. “I’m afraid someone is trying to find Odessa.”

* * *

The silence of the car only made the pain stand out more. Minho’s arm stung, the fingers of his right hand pinpricking with numbness as his arms remained pinned between his back and the seat.

Conversation (if Minho’s snide remarks and Jasper’s orders for him to shut up could be called that) had dwindled after the first fifteen minutes, and so Minho had staved off the pain and boredom and worry by staring out the window. The scenery shifted, from the Seattle skyline to trees, tall conifers mixed with spindly, bare skeletons that would soon return to green.

He knew they were headed south. That, and, after two hours, they were quickly approaching the state border. Mimi was avoiding the main roads, choosing instead the long, winding, and poorly maintained backroads that skirted the edges of civilization. But she was taking them at dangerous speeds, pushing the car to its limit. Minho gritted his teeth every time she hit a bump in the road and the wheels left the earth for the sky, slamming back down and jostling his already aching arm, threatening to send him face first into the dashboard.

And reminding him of the three sodas he had to drink back at the mansion.

Behind him, he could hear the occasional turn of a page. He hadn’t turned to look, but Jasper must have been examining the files he took from the Golds.

Mimi hit a bump in the road, and Minho winced as he was pressed against the door.

Shuck.

“I have to pee,” he said, his words the first human voice to cut through the silence in over an hour.

“Hold it,” Jasper said with a tut, and somehow Minho knew he wasn’t even bothering to look up from the papers.

“You expect me to hold it hold it with freakin’ Ovia Steward over here?” he said. “I about pissed myself on that last pothole.”

He heard a snort behind him and felt a flash of irritation. He was getting ready to lob a curse at the man until he spoke.

“There’s an old gas station not too far,” he said. “Pull over there, Meems.”

“I’m not a shuckin’ princess,” Minho spat. “Just pull over here.”

“I’d really rather not chase you through the woods if you decide to run,” Jasper said. “I’d hate to shoot you. Besides, you’re out in the world now. We’re civilized here.”

They continued down the road at the same reckless pace, until they rounded a curve and a tiny building came into view. Mimi slowed and pulled off the road, driving through the gravel parking area until she came to a stop around the back side of the building, where a single door, labeled “R ST  O   M,” waited.

The building looked like it had been abandoned for years. Maybe decades. The lot was as much plant as gravel, and the leafless stems of climbing ivies and creepers twisted their way up and around the gas pumps and the building itself.

The engine cut. Minho felt a sudden warm heat on his ear, and flinched away when he realized Jasper had leaned in close to him. The man took a fistful of his hair, pulling him back and forcing Minho to bite down a wince of pain.

“I’m going to say this and I am going to say it once,” Jasper said. His words, little more than a whisper, didn’t need volume to be threatening. “I don’t fancy feeling up little boys, so I’m going to cut your hands free. If you try _anything_ , I will make sure that the rest of this trip is the most uncomfortable time of your life. Is that clear?”

“Yes,” Minho said, his jaw clenched. What did the shank expect him to do, disagree?

A second later, Jasper pushed him forward and he felt immediate relief as the zip tie was cut. He brought his hands around front and rubbed his wrists. He wasn’t allowed much time to recover as Jasper got out of the car, then opened Minho’s door and beckoned him to do the same. The gun wasn’t in sight, but Minho had a pretty good idea that it was hidden, along with the man’s right hand, in his jacket pocket.

“Out,” Jasper said. “Walk.”

Minho did as he was told, rubbing his stinging wrists as they marched the short distance over uneven ground.

The bathroom door was blue, the paint peeling and water stained. His hand hovered over the handle. Jasper shoved his shoulder.

“Go on, then.”

Minho glared back at the man, but twisted the knob and pushed open the door. He wrinkled his nose and almost gagged as the stench wafted out. It wasn’t the worst thing he’d ever smelled—that honor went to bodies hanging from the ceiling—but it was close. Top five material for sure, and that was including the Bloodhouse and Ben’s feet after a run.

He doubted this place counted as ‘civilized.’

Regardless, he stepped in, Jasper hot on his heels. He stopped and felt the jab of the gun against his back.

The bathroom was tiny, and filthy. The walls and floor were covered in what he hoped was mostly dirt and grime, and the tank of the toilet had been smashed in, bits of porcelain scattered on the ground, sharp and stained brown. A mirror—or, half of one—hung above the sink.

“I’m not gonna be able to go with you watching me,” he said. It was a flimsy excuse, he knew, but no one could blame him for trying to get a minute or two alone.

“You lived in a box with a gaggle of other boys, and you’re telling me you’re shy?” Jasper said, the huffed. “Lucky for you I don’t really want to breath this in more than necessary. But…”

Jasper moved forward and shoved Minho against the doorframe, pressing his cheek into the splintered wood. The man’s free hand pawed at the front of his pants and slipped into his pocket.

“H-hey!” Minho said, his voice an embarrassing squeak. He tried to twist and grab for the man’s hand, but the gun dug into his spine and he froze.

A moment later, Jasper’s hand withdrew, and he spun Minho around, pinning his back against the frame and dangling a vial of blue powder in front of his face.

Shuck.

“Old doc been taking real good care of you, yeah?” he said.

Minho glared at him, but felt his face heat up. The tiny granules of the drug slid back and forth in the tube as Jasper moved it, like sand from an alien beach.

“That’s none of your—”

“But it is,” Jasper said, slipping the vial into his pocket. His hand now free, he tapped Minho in the middle of his forehead. “See, I took you for this, for what’s in that pretty little genius brain of yours, and I can’t have you frying it before we reach Sacramento. Bliss is a serious drug, kid.”

“The Flare’s a serious disease, shuckface. And this?” he said, tapping the side of his head. “If you were looking for a genius, I shoulda been your last pick. Not that it matters anyhow. WICKED wiped our brains. None of us remember klunk before wakin’ up in the Maze.”

The smile Jasper gave him was frightening. Not because it was meant to be scary or malicious, but because he could see the happiness in that smile. Anything that made this guy happy wasn’t good for Minho.

“See, I thought that at first, too. But then you gave yourself away. Or, rather, Kate Libby did,” Jasper said. His smile grew broader as Minho’s eyes went wide. The ex-butler shoved him into the bathroom. “Now go empty your bladder before I use a bullet to help you along.”

Minho glared at him one last time before shutting the door. He spotted a lock and turned in, ignoring the laughter that sounded from outside the door.

He turned and caught sight of himself in the broken mirror. He tried to glance away, but found he couldn't. What he saw there in equal parts terrified and captivated him.

Those eyes were beyond him. 

The memories were just flashes at first. A name that finally meant something. Cheez Whiz. San Francisco. Eddy’s Arcade.

Then a clear a memory. The twenty-two-twenty-six World Series. Giants won, fourteenth inning of game seven. He was twelve, watched it sitting criss-cross applesauce on his living room floor and didn’t even flinch at the sound of breaking glass behind him as Pablo Zhang hit that game winner into the stands.

Other things followed. There was a man who liked to throw things; baseballs and candy bars. _Catch, son_.

Remote controls. Plates. Beer cans. Fists.

There was a woman with eyes like his. Eyes he knew from the mirror, and not just the color or the shape, but the bitterness and anger behind them. The bruises around them.

But they—those people—they were history, so old they might as well have been runes on a stone slab. He could push them away because they were no more real than the klunk WICKED pumped into his brain, the hours (days? Minutes?) spent in that shuck chair, the months spent in a world of their ( _his_?) making.

The taste of failure.

But there was a girl, too, and she was real, with quarters rubbed dull and a warm hand that was all bones and sharp angles, just like the rest of her. With the girl there were sounds and flashes of light and music and greasy pizza. 

Video games that were retro by the twenty-first century, but only came back stronger after the solar flares nuked the sats.

 _We don’t need those flashy HoloCades, baby brother, ‘cause nuthin’ beats the classics._ Tried and true, history on a screen, cracks and all.

Space Invaders.

_It’s a revival._

That was real, almost as real as grief and blood and pain, the sizzle of lightning, the twinkle of the stars that didn’t move quite right (the irony of that was not lost on him).

Running.

Blond hair that was never tidy but always perfect.

Sacrifice.

His name, when it came from _his_ lips.

_Minho._

Her, he couldn’t push away, not on his own.

Truth was, that’s why he took Ronald’s offer. It wasn’t the pain, or the way he felt unable to claw out of the pits of anger. Pain was a daily routine and anger was a fortress he’d built himself from bricks of resentment and agony and grief (and what did that say about him, that anger felt like home?) 

It was the memories, the past, and it hurt more than the Flare a thousand times over. It was the look in his eyes. More than the threat of death, the uncertainty of his predicament, the prospect of never seeing Newt or any of the others again, the stranger behind his own eyes scared him. Those eyes did not belong to the person he was for the last three years.

But neither did they belong to the person he had been before.

That’s why he took Ronald’s offer. There was an old saying ingrained in his brain that told him that ignorance was bliss. Didn’t it follow that Bliss was ignorance?

Not that it mattered now. Jasper read him too well, heard the names that flowed from his mouth like air from his lungs, an instinct without conscious thought. 

Newt always said his mouth would get him in trouble someday, and how right that beautiful shank always was.

He pulled his eyes away from the mirror. How much time did he have before Jasper pounded at the door? Considering the speeds Mimi had been driving at (and who let the twelve year old drive?), they wanted to be somewhere (or be away from somewhere) in a hurry. That lock would never hold up against a well placed kick, much less a gun, and if Jasper was forced to do either of those, Minho knew he wouldn’t fail to follow through on his promise to make it an uncomfortable trip. He didn’t think the guy would kill him, or even hurt him badly, but he had no doubt that he could devise something to make the remainder of the journey hell.

He finished his business, careful not to touch anything he could avoid. He’d never been a stickler for hygiene (no sinks or soap in the Maze), but he still wished he could wash his hands after being in that bathroom. 

When he opened the door, he was met with Jasper, his eyebrows raised.

“Expected to have to pull you outta there,” he said.

“I’m full of surprises,” Minho responded. Jasper moved to the side and Minho walked past him, back to the car. He heard footsteps following a second later.

All he wanted to do was spin around and punch the slinthead in the face, gun be shucked. But he didn’t, because he knew he couldn’t win, and, despite what Newt said about him, he knew that violence wasn’t always the answer.

He just thought it usually worked pretty shucking well, with less effort than thinking out another solution.

As they neared the car, Mimi hopped out of the driver’s side, holding a brand new zip tie.

Minho stopped and rolled his eyes.

“C’mon, man, I got mauled by a freakin’ wolf,” he said, holding his bandaged arm up for emphasis. “You got a gun and I don’t got shit. Can’t we leave it alone?”

Jasper scoffed. 

“Not a chance, kiddo,” he said. Mimi approached. He didn’t fight when she grabbed his wrists and bound them, this time in front of his body. At the very least, he’d spend the rest of the trip without them pinned behind him.

Jasper helped him into the passenger’s seat again, but this time, instead of taking the seat behind Minho, he circled around to the driver’s side and got behind the wheel. Mimi sat behind Jasper, and now both of them were in his sight if he turned his head.

Jasper turned the key and the engine started, but they didn’t move. Minho glanced over at the driver to find the man staring at him.

“Thought you were in a hurry?” he said.

“We are, but I think it’s time we had a little talk,” Jasper said. “What do you remember? Besides classical cinema and kids shows.”

He wanted to be mad at the man for bringing it up, for so casually asking about something Minho had been struggling with for days. But he found himself strangely calm.

He could talk about it now. He didn’t have to hide it, pretend that nothing was wrong (well, nothing aside from the Flare), and act like his whole world hadn’t shattered. With his friends, he couldn’t mention a thing for fear of worrying them and seeming weak.

“Not a lot,” he said. “Being a kid. Baseball. My… family.”

He bit his lip at that final word, silently cursing himself for mentioning it at all. He wouldn’t tell Jasper klunk about them, not one shucking thing. They were his, and his alone.

Fortunately, Jasper didn’t seem interested in his childhood. He shook his head, and Minho realized how different he looked from before. Not only the clothes and the fact that his dark hair wasn’t combed back, hanging loose around his face, but his entire demeanor. It was no longer the stuffy, prim and proper act of the butler, and he wondered how someone could so easily switch into a role like that.

“What about WICKED?” Jasper said. He snapped his fingers and reached behind him. Mimi handed him a paper, which he quickly tossed into Minho’s lap. He jabbed the paper, his finger digging hard into Minho’s thigh. “I need to know about _this_.”

Minho frowned at the paper, but it only took him a second to recognize it. Taking up most of the sheet was a rough, hand drawn overhead view of the Maze. Though it wasn’t detailed, he could make out some of the major corridors he’d run so many times over.

Below that, a short message, also handwritten. 

_Nice. AR2 running smooth, but bug persists with layover. Can you simplify? Odessa must be green before drop._

Two things made his heart attempt an abrupt and violent escape through his throat, its beat reaching a rhythm he doubted was ever matched, neither in the Maze nor the Scorch. The first was the scrawl. It had filled a dozen notebooks with notes about the Maze and the patterns, and more than one lamentation about the hopelessness of Running the same thing every day. Even without the signature, where the line that cut through the A continued on to make the 7, he’d know his own handwriting anywhere. Maybe they did let him keep something of his own upon entering the Maze.

The second was that word. Odessa. He didn't know why, but it brought an acute and almost debilitating pain, centered somewhere in his chest, but too vague to be pinpointed.

He felt the pressure of forming tears and folded the paper in half, hiding the words from sight.

“I’ve never seen this before.”

“Bullshit,” Mimi said. She and Jasper shared a look, and she shrugged her shoulders. “It’s bullshit.”

Jasper yanked the paper away from him, then pushed him forward and pulled down the collar of his shirt. 

“This begs to disagree,” he said. Fingers traced over the mark inked into his skin with a gentleness that made his skin crawl.

“Let go of me, shuckface,” Minho snarled, lifting his hands and awkwardly pushing Jasper away. “I swear to god, if you touch me like that again, I’ll—”

“You’ll _what_?” Mimi said, a knife suddenly inches away from his face. Minho looked at the glinting silver and found that he wasn’t afraid. Maybe it was the adrenaline or just the fact that he knew he signed away his life when he left Newt, but this girl, this man, their weapons… they couldn’t do anything to him, nothing that was worse than what already happened or what lay ahead.

He smiled, because, for once, he had the upper hand.

“I’m dying. Fuck, I’m _dead_. I don’t care if you kill me. So if you want my help, want whatever you think I know, want _answers_ ,” he said, pausing for emphasis. “Then this becomes a two way street. You’re going to tell me everything you know.”

A silence enveloped the car as his words sank in. Mimi looked angry, all too willing to make use of her weapon. But Jasper… there was a spark in his eyes, and after a second, his lips quirked up in a smile.

He took the knife from Mimi, whose nostrils flared as she settled back into her seat.

“I know you won’t believe me, not yet, but we’re not your enemy,” Jasper said, twirling the blade in his hands. “And you’re not ours.”

Then, he lifted the knife, the blade flashing in the dim sunlight, and with a single, smooth motion, he cut the plastic around Minho’s wrists.

"WICKED," Jasper said. "WICKED is the enemy."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Both Ovia Steward and Pablo Zhang are fictional characters of my own creation in order to have some pop culture references that are a little more in line with the time period of The Maze Runner books (2232). While I have a reason for Minho's ability to reference 250 year old movies and video games, that would probably not be young!Minho's chief form of entertainment. Ovia Steward is a children's cartoon character who bears some similarities to Speed Racer, while Pablo Zhang is a baseball player.
> 
> 2\. I don't recall if I've said this before, but I have not read The Kill Order, and likely will not before finishing this fic. I don't know exactly what it entails as far as backstory for any of the characters/the world/the Flare, and so any pre-book stuff is entirely of my own creation, whether that is the timeline, state of the world, character backstories/families/real names, nature of the Flare, history of WICKED, etc., unless otherwise noted.
> 
> 3\. Wow sorry for the length between updates. I've been mega busy with school and work. The good news: I have finished my classes (for good--earning my degree) and I have that off my plate. I intend to finish the rough draft of Invisible Thorns within a couple months. The bad news: I don't know if I will post another chapter until the rough draft is done. I don't want to post and realize I've written myself into a corner. This is the home stretch, and every word has to be carefully chosen, because a lot of things needs to fit together to result in a product I can be proud of. I will try to continue to update, but the quality of this is my primary concern.


	22. The Mouse Ran Up the Clock

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “The forest did not tolerate frailty of body or mind. Show your weakness, and it would consume you without hesitation.” ― Tahir Shah, House of the Tiger King: The Quest for a Lost City

Silence settled in as they waited. And perhaps it was the waiting that was the hardest part. Thomas’s head throbbed, but he’d grown used to it, and it’s not nearly as painful as the silence. He and Newt, perched on the foot of the stairs, awaited Teresa’s return. Awaited news. Thomas was almost ready to contact her, to get some sign of what she’d found, but he couldn’t bring himself to make the headache any worse.

Billy’s chest rose and fell in a steady rhythm, and it was her breath that Thomas counted by. Not the throb throb throb of his head, in time with the beat of his heart, nor the tick-tock of the grandfather clock against the wall.

Ninety-four.

Ninety-five.

Newt was stock still beside him, had been since they sat at the foot of the stairs. Thomas quelled the worry in his gut with every passing breath (ninety-seven). Teresa would call out if she needed him. If she was in trouble.

If he could hear her clearly, through the throbbing pain in his head.

He briefly considered trudging back into the kitchen to retrieve some ice, but pushed the thought away with a glance at Newt.

 _Not for a second_.

That’s what Minho asked, and that’s what Thomas had to do.

One hundred two. Where had the time gone?

A beam of sunlight streamed in through a window, landing at his feet. Dust swam through it like a twirling storm, and Thomas wrinkled his nose at the prospect of breathing that in.

One hundred… one hundred…

“Anythin’ from Teresa?”

Thomas frowned, sunlight and colors blurring as he turned to look at Newt. There was a deep crease between his eyebrows, and a faint redness around the rim of his eyes. Those eyes were locked on the front door of the mansion, its ornate, stained glass windows glittering.

“No,” Thomas said, the word heavy on his tongue.

“Shuck,” Newt muttered, his eyes falling closed as he took in a deep breath and let it out. “Your head?”

“Still attached.”

“Funny,” Newt said. He moved, twisting his hands together, fingers interlocked. Tight. White knuckled. His nails were short and jagged and bitten red around the cuticle. “You’re a bloody funny guy lately, Tommy.”

“Now _that’s_ funny.”

Teresa’s voice rang out from the top of the stairs, and Thomas turned just in time to watch the young woman descend. Her wrists were still raw, red, and bloody, and he could see the obvious outline of their pistol in her waistband.

“I’m a funny guy,” Thomas said, but his voice was drowned out by Newt’s as the tall boy jumped to his feet.

“Any luck?”

Teresa came to a stop several stairs above them, drawing even with Newt in height. Thomas bit back a hiss as he stood. His vision swam even as he moved slowly.

“Vivian’s fine,” Teresa said, looking from Newt to Thomas as she spoke. “Jasper tied her to a chair and stole some files. She’s getting changed, but she called Butch.”

Teresa nodded to the still yet unconscious woman at the bottom of the stairs. “Still out?” she said.

Newt jerked his head once. “Dunno why,” he said with a tiny shrug. “Don’t see any knot on her head like Tommy. Maybe Ronald…?”

“At work,” Teresa said, tongue swiping over her bottom lip. “Miss Vivian said he got called in early, but she was dialing him up when I left.”

Newt faintly nodded his head, but Thomas could tell he wasn’t really thinking about Ronald, Miss Vivian, Billy, or anything or anyone outside of a certain ill-tempered Runner.

“We should, uh…” Newt trailed off, glancing up the stairs, then to the doorway outside. “Talk… bloody talk ‘bout what we wanna do. Have us a Gathering.”

Teresa nodded her head immediately, but it took Thomas a second to catch up. It felt like the world was slipping by him slowly, like sap oozing from a tree. Like syrup on pancakes. And yet, there were moments when time simply jumped, when he missed everything for a few seconds. Or more?

Wait, wasn’t syrup just sap?

Newt slipped past him, skipping nimbly over Billy, and headed for the kitchen. Thomas followed, Teresa bringing up the rear. When they reached the kitchen, Thomas grabbed for the cloth ice pack, but found it was little more than a sodden mess. Newt took it from his hands.

“Sit down, Tommy,” he said, using the wet rag to wipe up the cola that pooled on the marble island, then tossing the whole thing into the sink. “Shouldn’ta let you spend so long with it off.”

Thomas sat at the island as instructed while Newt prepared a new ice pack. Once again, he winced as Newt pressed it against the swelling lump on his skull, but gratefully accepted the cold.

Newt sat next to him, and Teresa took up a position across from them. Newt wasted no time in getting down to business. It was almost disturbing how collected the boy was, after everything. That moment of emotional weakness seemed like a thing of the distant past, and Thomas was reminded of the Newt who kept order in the Glade following Alby’s injury.

“She’s phoned Butch, then?” he said, and when Teresa nodded he went on. “What did she say? Is he coming back? When are we going after Minho? Do we need to do anything—pack, prepare?”

Teresa hesitated for a moment before answering. Thomas felt her insecurity through their bond, a mix of uncertainty and confusion, like she didn’t quite understand the very nature of what she was to say.

“I don’t know if he’s coming,” she said. Newt opened his mouth to speak, but she went on. “She… told him something weird. She said that someone—I guess Jasper and that girl he had with him—she said that they were trying to get something called Odessa. No, not get. _Crack_.”

“Crack?” Newt said. “Odessa? What the bloody shuck does that mean?”

Newt’s question was left unanswered, however, when they heard the unmistakable sound of wheels on the gravel driveway. They all looked up as one, eyes darting to the opening between the kitchen and the entry hall. They all got up, walking toward the doorway, hanging around just inside the frame. There was a palpable tension in the air, and Thomas knew that each of them were fearful for whosoever was about to come through that door.

He saw the handle turn, watched Newt tense, caught sight of Teresa’s hand going to the gun in her waistband.

The tension left quickly with the entry of Ronald, dressed in the long white coat emblematic of a physician. A stethoscope was still slung around his neck. He glanced around the room for a moment before catching sight of Billy, then the three of them clustered in the doorway.

“Are any of you injured?” he said, his lilting accent carrying gently through the room. Thomas was the first to step out, and he realized that his hand was still wrapped tightly around the makeshift ice pack.

“She’s the worst off,” Newt said. The girl, of course, had not moved in the time they were in the kitchen. She was as unconscious as ever.

Ronald examined Billy first, checking her for injuries. Through the presence of a tiny inflamed circle of skin, he surmised that she had been drugged, a needle plunged into her neck. Most likely a sedative, he said, something he couldn’t safely treat without a drug test to determine what it was. The best thing to do was to wait. Newt helped him move Billy to a parlor off the main hall, so she could rest more comfortably.

When they returned, Thomas insisted that he treat Teresa’s scraped and cut wrists before allowing him to examine his own head, but was quickly shot down by Teresa and Ronald both. The old man examined the bump on his head, determining that he’d suffered a concussion due to his loss of consciousness. The doctor encouraged him to rest, but Thomas pushed the idea away. Eventually, Ronald dropped the suggestion and focused on Teresa’s wrists. It took him only a few short moments after grabbing some supplies from his office. Nothing was deep enough to need stitches, but Teresa still hissed as a clear, pungent liquid was poured over the cuts. Soon, her wrists were wrapped in a white bandage only a few shades lighter than her pale skin.

They (well, Newt and Teresa), were trying to answer Ronald’s slew of questions when Miss Vivian entered the room. She shushed their inquiries and expressed brief and rather insincere relief at their relative good health before issuing them orders like a seasoned military commander.

“Dear,” she said to Teresa, “If you wouldn’t mind, in the office off the solarium is a black attache case. Please retrieve it and bring it back.”

Teresa frowned, but only hesitated for a second before turning on her heel and heading down the hallway.

“Boys,” the woman said. “I suggest you ready yourselves to leave.”

“Wait,” Newt said, shaking his head. “What’s the plan? How are we going after Minho? Do you even know where—”

Miss Vivian fixed Newt with a hard look, though not one devoid of kindness.

“When Shelley arrives, we will devise a plan. For the meantime, all you can do is be ready to leave at a moment’s notice.”

* * *

 Cards were scattered across the floor. The remnants of the morning, crumpled and creased from the struggle. Thomas steadied himself on the doorjamb and watched as Newt stopped mid-step, paused before it all, his eyes going distant and glassy as he examined the ruined game. He was about to reach for the blond’s shoulder, to remind him that time was a valued commodity, in too short supply, but Newt suddenly jerked away, heading for the pile of their old clothes.

There wasn’t a lot they could use in the room. Most of the clothes were dirty and bloodstained, but Newt switched his ill-fitting jeans for the gray cargo pants. There was dirt on the knees, a dark stain across the thigh, surely Minho’s blood, but they would suit what they were about to do—whatever that was—far better.

Thomas grabbed Teresa’s jacket and the sturdy boots given to them by WICKED, tucking them both under his arm to bring down to the young woman.

He sat heavily on the bed, his head swimming when he bent to retie his shoes. Slow, he reminded himself. An aching pain radiated from the back of his head in waves, and there were moments when a brief flash of blinding white or a wave of nausea threatened to overpower him. He knew he was in no state to be going on some rescue mission, but he also didn’t have a choice.

When Thomas straightened up, he was met with the sight of Newt kneeling at the foot of the bed, one long, jacket-clad arm reaching under the furniture, his tongue poking out the corner of his lips.

“What’re you doing?” Thomas questioned. Newt glanced at him, and gave a tiny shrug as he pulled back, the stack of WICKED files in his hands.

“Need to get… somethin’,” he mumbled. He stood up and tossed the folders on the bed. They slipped and slid against each other, coming to rest in a loose, disarrayed stack. Newt began sorting through them, eyes trained on the affixed labels

It didn’t take Thomas long to realize what he was searching for, as Newt’s efforts ceased when he found the folder labeled A7. He hesitated before opening it.

“I didn’t even pay mind to the picture,” he said. He glanced at Thomas and gave another small shrug. “When Teresa popped it open and we… found out. I just looked at the words. I thought… I took Alby’s photo and I gave you Chuck’s, but I never thought I’d need Minho’s. Even when… I just never thought.”

Thomas nodded, feeling a rush of sympathy for Newt. He still had the photo of Chuck, had kept it tucked into his pants pocket every moment of the day. It never went far from him, and when he changed, when he moved it from one pair of pants to another, he would unfold it, look at the smiling little boy with chubby cheeks whose life had ended far too soon.

“You won’t need the picture for long,” he said. He hoped there was conviction in his voice, because it was what Newt needed right now. “We’ll get him back. We know where he’s going, and we’ve got Butch, and Minho? He’ll be fine. He’s a survivor, Newt. He’s going to make it through this just fine.”

“Yeah,” Newt said with a nod, then he took in a deep breath and flicked open the folder. Thomas had never read it. When he reviewed the files with Newt, the blond had been in charge of them, paging through one at a time, moving his own and Teresa’s and Minho’s to the bottom as they went through.

Thomas stood to get a better look.

The Minho in the photograph was much younger. His hair was shorn short on the sides, spiky and in disarray on top. There was a smirk on his lips, but it wasn’t one purely born of bravado and sarcasm. There was happiness, too. There was more light in his eyes, and less anger.

 **“** He’s a bloody baby,” Newt said with a laugh, an honest to god smile gracing his lips. Minho must have been twelve or thirteen in the photograph, not so much younger than he was now, but the difference… it was staggering.

“That’s how he looked in the Glade,” Newt said. The corners of his lips just so ever slightly upturned as he spoke. “He was a squirrelly thing, didn’t have near half as much muscle as now. But he was fast… S’why we voted him Keeper. He argued, said it shoulda been me, but he got outvoted.”

“Sounds like Minho,” Thomas said. “Arguing his way through everything.”

“You don’t know the half of it,” Newt said. Then, all at once, the smile left his lips. He swallowed thickly, then unpinned the photograph and tucked it, unfolded, into the breast pocket of his jacket. Thomas wondered if his choice to put it right over his heart was deliberate or not. Newt tossed the folder down, not even bothering to close it, and then headed for the door.

“Hey!” Thomas said, Newt stopping in his tracks and casting a glance back at Thomas. “Shouldn’t we… hide them again?”

“Why bother?” Newt said with a shrug. “I don’t… I don’t think we’ve got a reason to hide ‘em anymore. Besides… who knows if we’re even coming back here.”

Without another word, Newt walked out of the room. Thomas bounced on his heels for a moment, debating whether or not he should hide away the folders. In the end, he too walked away, leaving the piles of data, of partial history, in place to be found later.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "13 Aug 2015"... well


End file.
